Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
It's one of many horrid happenings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
Shallots and sharks'fins face the smould'ring log
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum