Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
His nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
The fertile mother changeling drops like kings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
The peasant's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb?
Fried grilled black pudding's still whe world's best yum