My song is of Mme Pereire
a beauty than whom none is fairer,
whose muddled, magenta,
crushed-velvety centre
has perfume to grace any wearer.
I’d rather have written a sonnet
To our upstanding-friend-with-the-bonnet,
But I fear this is all
I shall manage till Fall –
Though I might spend the Winter upon it.
There was a young man from Westphalia
Who thought that his prick was a dahlia,
Till one day in the park
He was heard to remark
On the wonderful red genitalia.