A man I knew who lived in Paris

Painted his apartment red.

It was, he said, the colour of the dead.

That was his special trick:

To turn a rainbow on its head.

 

Last week in the newspaper, I read

That his bath tub was flooded,

His waters were muddied,

His habits, like insects, were studied

Under a microscope

Through the bottom of a jar.

Magnified, he seemed enormous

From afar.

 

Next week he will feature:

The world's last living creature,

Painting his apartment red.

The tin will run dry

And once his scaly skin is shed,

Tears may fall where he will tread.