Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas That hordes of crooks felt they'd more right to own His toga rumpled high above his knees With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown It's one of many horrid happenings When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave The fertile mother changeling drops like kings Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave The genealogist with field and fess In Indian summers Englishmen drink grog Watching manure and compost coalesce We'll suffocate before the epilogue Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some Fried grilled black pudding's still whe world's best yum |