Spring is here, plain as day,
Thiers and Picard steal away
From what they stole: green Estates
With vernal splendours on display
May: a jubilee of nudity, asses on parade
Sevres, Meudon, Bagneux, Asnieries -
New arrivals make their way,
Sowing springtime everywhere.
They've got shakos, sabers, and tom-toms,
Not those useless old smouldering stakes
And skiffs "that nev-nev-never did cut..."
Through the reddening waters of the lakes.
Now more than ever we'll band together
When golden gems blow out our knees.
Watch as they burst on our crumbling heaps:
You've never seen dawns like these.
Thiers and Picard think they're artists
Painting Corots with gasoline.
They pick flowers from public gardens,
Their tropes traipsing from seam to seam...
Their intimates of the Big Man, and Favre,
From the flowerbeds where he's sleeping,
Undams an aqeductal flow of tears: a pinch
of pepper prompts adequate weeping...
The stones of the city are hot,
Despite all of your gasoline showers.
Doubtless an appropriate moment
To roust your kind from power...
And the Nouveau Riche lolling peacefully
Beneath the shade of ancient trees,
Will hear the boughs break overhead:
Red Rustlings that won't be leaves!
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