I am, my sweet, the fattest thin man
On our fair stretch of boulevard.
I eat my greens, I drink my wine and curse
The Executive and worse.

Early Autumn, more hot days to come,
And I follow the lives of birds.
Surely, they suffer in this heat.
Surely, they pay taxes to Parliament.
Surely, they’re comedians.

Will you trifle with me and then give
No less than evil the slip,
Have me come love you in a realm
Where birds fly more freely, because more pristine?
From what could I ever have saved you?

I am, my sweet, the fattest thin man
On our stretch of fair boulevard.
I eat my greens, I drink my wine, and I believe
Everything and nothing, —I believe in you

Even as you accept what I assume
Is the cause in some of hysterics, in others mirth:
We’re interlopers on this earth.