Ophelia

You stroll off the meter, but you Won't see me, begging by the theatre, blow on polished fingers, at the Salon du Te,' hear policemen whisper, discuss fine places to be, sip Darjeeling, don't need to miss a beat, a guest of distinction, such a pleasure to meet, inform you who's singing, for all of those parties, you give by by the sea, brings them good company, do waves rise in rhythm, to remember our street, where in rags and rayon, you struggled to eat. .