A/N: Admittedly, not my best, but I had to write something. The little rhyme scheme sort of snuck its way in as a sardonic joke.

Excuse me, sir, I'm Columbine,
I drink and sip your dainty wine.

Lobster begs up from a darned garden plate
dragged through with green, surrounded by envy
lies flaccid in a bed
fit for a less deserving king.
When I take its length into my mouth
(tailfins and all) money rolls
down my throat, ready to
attack! -tack!
oil crawls
across my shoulders, and down my
stark! back!

I can give you no refund
but money rolls up my throat in soggy
paper stacks.
And the lobster crawls back up my esophagus and gets
its breath back.