if my thighs

If my thighs were a tithe of the thize of her thighs
and my eyes as wise as the lies in her cries
or my nose as mimosas the rose in her toes
as for me, I’d be free as a bee in the sea.

If my lungs that she flung in the dung were unhung
and my songs remain forever unsung
or my chin were as thin as the length of a pin
as for me, I’d be she who’d be thee you’d be he.

If you could have written such drivel in Britain
you'd purr like a kitten who shrivels a mitten.
So why prance or why dance in the meadows of France
where you cannot glance at me skew or askance?

And so it is said, and so shall it be
forever for Percy, for Clarence, for glee
And so it is written, and so is it said
that he who would live must first have been dead.