Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
From cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum