Belle, my beauty, out of time,
magnificent, eternal,
stop this hand from writing
these strange entries in your journal.
Make the flowers grow somewhere
just out of sight of man.
Make the aged father leak
so weakly in a pan.
Shine the moon upon the sun,
reverse despotic oceans.
Make us get a healthy tan.
Provide the proper lotions.
And on your last sweet smell of breath,
blow smoke to heal the nation.
Create for us better roads
and faster transportation.