A sudden large and a quick small,
Little Bo-Peep has a great fall;
And all the black kerbaus
Wash after makan.
The smell of grass and malaus
Lingers over the uniformed band,
Mixes with that of ghee and blachan.
Tumasik bones are dead with the sand.
They hang out the Washing on the New Bridge Line;
O please don’t dry me and my mind;
I’d like Marx and his borthers
To tell me of leisure-theories.
Paris à la mode is not here, you wives and mothers,
Gunong Blanc is high.
Take the Taj Mahal and then the dowries,
The hucksters want to buy.
The lizard’s world has come,
And worm-squash tastes like rum.
Let’s take the human catapult
And shoot down some submarines;
Let’s rally round the electric cult
And pray for colder blood —
Kiss the rotting Vice-gangrenes
Or dance a jig in the mud.