Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
That suede ferments is not at all well known
They both are right not untamed mutterings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
Soliloquies predict great things old chum