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You'll be sorry when the sun has roasted you toLobster red, nothing saidWhen yellow has turned green to brown, divide by fourMultiply by nine, describe your divisions, anatomical derisionLobster head and lobster feetOn arriving with a third languageTucked into your brief case, next to your toothbrushAlong with a copy of the Nouvelle ObservateureWhile your sons and daughters who registered naughtUnder intensive electronic scanningYou regard your body with regard to eventsWith which nothing plannedNever lacked a sense of theatreOn returning with the tab you've gainedA head of world service, the best of your cultureAn evening of fun in the metropolis of your dream