Under a blue moon,
A new tune, a blue tune
The lute-playing gypsy'd played,
But now he's just catchin' Zs.

That's not a small lute. . .
A tall lute. He's all mute.
If he awoke, he'd not be staid.
You see, he ain't solitary.

Where he's lyin', there's a lion;
The beast may have kisses
For him, or its wishes
May be vittles fares.

And so, H. Rousseau,
Rightly you did rue so
When critics mocked you, but who cares?
We moon over your primitive lairs.