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Poem	They say that Monte Carlo is A sunny place for shady people; But I'm not in the gambling biz, And sober as a parish steeple. so though this paradisal spot The devil's playground of the rich is, I love it and I love it not, As men may sometimes fall for bitches. I lazed beneath the sky's blue bliss, The sea swooned with a sequin glimmer; The breeze was shy as maiden kiss, The palms sashayed in silken shimmr. The peace I soaked in every pore did me more good than ten religions . . . And then: Bang! Bang! my joy was o'er; Says I: "There goes them poor dam pigeons." I see them bob from out their traps, the swarded green aroud them ringing; bewildered, full of joy perhaps, With sudden hope of skyway winging. They blink a moment at the sun, They flutter free of earthy tether . . . A fat man holds a smoking gun, A boy collects some blood and feather. And so through all the sainted day, Bang! Bang! a bunch of plumage gory. Five hundred francs they cost to slay, And few there live to tell the story . . . Yet look! there's one so swift to fly, Despite the shots a course he's steering . . . Brave little bird! he's winging high, He's gained the trees - I feel like cheering. In Monte Carlo's garden glades With dreamful bliss one softly lingers, And lazily in leafy shades The doves pick breadcrumbs from one fingers . . . Bang! Bang! Farewell, oh sylvan courts! Where peace and joy are sweetly blended . . . God curse these lousy Latin sports! My pigeons scat, my dream is ended.
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