You'll be sorry when the sun has roasted you to
Lobster red, nothing said
When yellow has turned green to brown, divide by four
Multiply by nine, describe your divisions, anatomical derision

Lobster head and lobster feet
On arriving with a third language
Tucked into your brief case, next to your toothbrush
Along with a copy of the Nouvelle Observateur

While your sons and daughters who registered naught
Under intensive electronic scanning
You regard your body with regard to events
With which nothing planned

Never lacked a sense of theater
On returning with the tab you've gained
A head of world service, the best of your culture
An evening of fun in the metropolis of your dream