Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
The genealogist with field and fess
With gravity at gravity's great cog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?