I rest on one eye, a circle of sight; A peanut once wore me, a tycoon might. One lens of class from another age’s role.

From the Czech Republic, my origins are west, though Prague is the capital known best. A country long forgotten, not tied to Parisian artists of notoriety, for they refused to comply with the rest.

They can be Happy They can be birth. They can be dark. They can be cake. They can even be ones that will go down in infamy. But they come one at a time and you never get them back, so don’t waste them.

Dreamers know life is not a calamity, But using me and the elements is just a fantasy. And ego and hubris drive one’s vanity To seek gold from lead using . . .

He’s the worst pirate you’ve ever heard of, But you have heard that he set slaves free. He traded his soul to the depth of the ocean, To pull the Wicked Wench from the sea. With Davy Jones he struck a bargain, Thirteen years to sail, then service to keep. Now name the small bird that shares a title, With the man who returned from the deep.