A massage in the Swiss Alpes,
Green hills behind cucumber slices,
Five people plucking kneipping
Pulling, burning and painting.
I will not in golden be framed,
Nor filter light by marble veil,
I wasn't created to be a muse
Nor to delight or amuse.
I am made of pounds of flesh
the sun burns and the sea frosts.
Give me a moon bathed beach,
you can keep your red carpets.
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