A part of the appalling grounds was laid
With pergolas, gazebos, and a brick
Pagoda. He saw statuary, thick
With aureolas, wee-wees, and flamingos.
He saw a plaster herd of rampant dingoes,
A Virgin Mary, and a gold-dust maid,
Who turned out to be real. At least she spoke.
"'The dingoes ate my baby," you were thinking,.
And "Is she live or astral? She's not blinking.'
I know you were." All true, he had to say.
"Oh, and are your breasts real, by the way?'"
That, too. Too true. Her pleasaunce made him choke.
The hurt, which he had put aside, as lent
And oft repaid, was rhythmic as a psalm.
All he had saved, he thought it had been spent.
And there she stood, beneath a plastic palm.
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