Anna

By the garden door, of Saint Phillip Neri, I saw the poor, cross Catherine Street, in their eyes amour, fresh linen and Eau de Cherie, the soul of lost hordes, some drive a Chevvy, they laugh as they walk, who needs a dime, when they are brought, to the Sultan's party, all of them taught, you don't need an inquiry, when all truth is caught, then buried, and every part of thought, has been divvied, to a perfect nought, please make them identify, the apertures, between moon and the sea.