A little priest, much cassocked in the midday sun, A chef's burnt offering on his head, Tumbles and bumbles and absolves his way Down Skyros's marbled hill. And here we are in Calypso, In the green light district, And there are tarts and farts and good people, And a bearded collie and poseurs, And antique lechers, And men jealous of their dogs, And yet more reggae. And they give you a free drink, Because you like Elvis, before he died of G.I. Blues © kfg moore
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