You have since longed for me
All along me thought made us money
Our old friend Le Professeur Rivière
Le Docteur Ruisseau now inject our seeds feverishly
It runs up and down in white mud
What we get we don’t have
What we have we don’t like
Our sons cry for their seeds
Our daughters labour to death
Thought us goodness in it
Nevertheless, there should be
And now our joy our sorrow
Real income earner
Fading death
Come and our heads shall reason together
If I need to rest for a while
Home with the ‘exiled’
Or peradventure
Rule like the Duke of Edinburgh

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