You'll be sorry when the sun has roasted you to

Lobster red, nothing said

When yellow has turned green to brown, divide by four

Multiply by nine, describe your divisions, anatomical derision

Lobster head and lobster feet

On arriving with a third language

Tucked into your brief case, next to your toothbrush

Along with a copy of the Nouvelle Observateure

While your sons and daughters who registered naught

Under intensive electronic scanning

You regard your body with regard to events

With which nothing planned

Never lacked a sense of theatre

On returning with the tab you've gained

A head of world service, the best of your culture

An evening of fun in the metropolis of your dream