Pritzle-prang and maple dots,
cafe laughter-doon,
the other-spike of apres-lots
sleeps til half past noon.

I'm lost in fortune reading fairs,
the merry scent of loss,
don't share the fours with Aldebarks,
he vents the gainers toss.

Regard the ring with slower-stares-
the dwarven clowns at play,
the toffee apple wrestle fit
makes ache, a night for day.

The painted lips, the glower lakes,
some girls, for sell, for rye,
no chance to take, Ms. Rosenhips.
I'll leave the half-sheets dry.

So sickly-sweet with menalgaze,
with waste, with fear, with fleas.
No elephants, to drag me through.
This circus is not for me.