They Don't Speak English in Paris

I wish that I could get in line
And shout the praise of Gertrude Stein.
In any high-class hullabaloo
I rather like to holler too;
I hate like anything to miss
Swelling the roar of Ah! Boom! Siss!
And most particularly when
The cheers are led by famous men.
The fault I'm sure is solely mine,
But I cannot root for Gertrude Stein.
For Gertrude Stein I cannot root;
I cannot blow a single toot;
I must preserve a dreary silence,
Though doomed thereby to durance vilence.
I'm fond of women, also wine,
But not the song of Gertrude Stein.
No laurels can I pass, alas,
To pigeons on the grass, alas.
Oh woefully must I decline
To dance in the street for Gertrude Stein.
O Gertrude, Gertrude, is it me?
Couldn't it possibly be thee?
Not in the face of all the roses
Awarded thee by them who knowses.
From Walla Walla to the Rhine
Carillons clang for Gertrude Stein,
Rung not by nitwit nincompoops,
But geniuses in fervent groups.
Those pens of talent most divine
Scratch noisiest for Gertrude Stein;
Neglecting all their personal muttons,
They genuflect to Tender Buttons .
Why must I grunt, a lonely swine,
Rejecting the pearls of Gertrude Stein?
Why can't I praise in cataracts
Her Four such Saints in Three such Acts?
Four Saints, Three Acts; Three Acts, in fact
The Acts get a Saint-and-a-third an act,
And Lizzie Borden took three axe
And gave her mother tongue forty whacks,
And a hundred eminent artistic figures
Swallowed the woodpile including the nigures.
I prefer to wade through Rasselas
To pigeons on the grass, alas.
The English language is better as language
Than spattered like a lettuce and mayonnaise sanguage,
So let those who will read Alice B. Toklas,
And I'll take the complete works of Shakespeare and a box of chocolas.
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