One of 100 Thousand Billion Poems
by Raymond Queneau

He bent right down to pick up his valise
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
The understanding critic firstly sees
And empty cages show lif'e bird has flown
How it surprised us pale grey underlings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Through homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
The peasant's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?