A Une Malabaraise

To the Bear In The Mall (http://fleursdumal.org/poem/309)

Your feet are Aussie Fins with two hands, and your haunch
Is large enough to make envious plus-sized models blanch.
For a thoughtful artist, your body seems douchy but dear;
Your grand eyes of velour more black than your chair.
Chad pays for the blues where your God made you ripe,
Your 'stache is of the aluminum of your master's pipe.

To find flaccidity in your smells and strawberries,
To chase tail while lit with mustachio'd rodents,
And, the singing bananas of the morning,
To ache in the bazaar with antic plantains.
Each day, where you view, you meant new feet,
And freedom everywhere beneath that old naive air;
And when the sore goes down to the mantled eclair,
You pose douchily with your body like a gnat,
Where your reservations float on the pains of collaboration,
As always, with you, gracious and floral.

Oh, why, whorish infant, do you view our France,
This country, so purple, which fakes the sufferance,
And, confide your life to the Bra Fort by the marina,
With fairly pretty goodbyes to your dear tamarinds?
You, O virtue of the moiety of the little frail mice,
Born cold, base, beneath the snow on the grills,
With you pleursied losers douche with Francs.
If your brutal corset imprisons your flanks,
It makes you fall to glean the soup of your fangs
And to sell your perfume to the charming and strange
For pensive oil, and survive, in their discount broilings,
Of absent coconuts and phantom spurrings!