The Nobel Polish Baron mustache, on the wafty vine,
sticky black snuff, on your stache has dried,
I excuse your tobacco dipping while I climb,
just to sway with the summer chamsin wind,
in your many tiered mustache ride.
As I reach the zenith of my vining ascent,
a small french Hercule Perot of upward bent,
offered no more for me to arise and climb,
so downward tickle, of the Salvador Dali vine.
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