Roberta

Forget all these clowns, that come to woo her, half without elan, as loud as her woes, ships blow their hooters, every song sings of home, not just from France, but around each corner, who can fault her tan, she glides without a throne, the bars are full of losers, she'd rather be alone, nothing hits by chance, her certain eyes are ruined, everything comes to pass, barefoot she tries to laugh, she could never share, their hard countenance, strange that bearing down, should be a schooner, no sound of a police van, upsets this cruiser.