Kate

Forget all these clowns, that come to woo her, many without elan, as loud as her woes, ships blow their hooters, every song sings of home, not just from France, but around the corner, who can fault her tan, she glides without throne, the bars are full of bums, she'd rather be alone, nothing hits by chance, her certain eyes are ruined, everything comes to pass, barefoot she raises a laugh, what they do to her, their hard countenance, strange that more than a ham, should be a schmoozer, no sound of a removal van, they meet in the boozer.