Crimpoline roses for you, my darling circle of lyres.Your ultimate adoration of the truth,On your stinking preposterous pyres.Send me flowers and a telegram,the recipe of your mothers jam.No picture would I rather than one picture of you , dear father.My arm in a tea-towel sling sitting on the garden swing.Dont give me gingerbread tales, Give me a hammer and bent nails. Dont lead me to a dreaming princess, in bed-sits of hash and inscents.All and everything we seek, finally in pine or teak.Old gental parents who spared the rods,who demanded we kneel before their gods. I have no eccleslastical misery, Oh so luckily brother,Ive you.