A
Bossa rhyme wrought by the beach,
in Ipanema, spurned by two pretty legs,
where commercial winds and assenting tides
rock that song to distant lands.
The floating shards fall now to the bottom of the pot,
with the dregs of talent and derivative life,
Ferried off at great risk and cost to
Supermarket stalls and waiting rooms.
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The Girl From Ipanema
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