Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum