Touched with the courage of tiny e-moons, 
Blackened hypocrites cut a full plank –
Quaintly chewing this cruel phase from out its tricky little coop.
Let’s show the ultrasea our hot black funnel!,
Mock-tremble at rejoinders sent sinking leagues below,
As in the maelstrom behemoths eternally rut 
Against files immobilized to blue. 
Surely Europe regrets its old puppets:
A starry archfiend’s view of ills…
Don’t let’s sue for the vogue of open cents,
That these newfound cents make you gold in exile.
For lo, Verlaine, a million birds of gold already 
                                                      energize the future