THE wind's bastinado Whipt on the calico Skin of the Macaroon And the black Picaroon Beneath the galloon Of the midnight sky. Came the great Soldan In his sedan Floating his fan -- Saw what the sly Shadow's cocoon In the barracoon Held. Out they fly. "This melon, Sir Mammon, Comes out of Babylon: Buy for a patacoon -- Sir, you must buy!" Said Il Magnifico Pulling a fico -- With a stoccado And a gambado, Making a wry Face: "This corraceous Round orchidaceous Laceous porraceous Fruit is a lie! It is my friend King Pharaoh's head That nodding blew out of the Pyramid. . . ." . . . The tree's small corinths Were hard as jacinths, For it is winter and cold winds sigh. . . No nightingale In her farthingale Of bunched leaves let her singing die. |