Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
The understanding critic firstly sees
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The genealogist with field and fess
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
The bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum