There once was a banker
Who for all the wrong reasons
Had become a banker.
He consulted, in his hunger
For melancholy vindication,
An apple tree, a vascular surgeon and a box.
All three equally melancholy,
Yet so satisfied inside
That the banker felt wronged.

Thirty-seven butterflies
And thirty-seven bottles of wine
And thirty-seven folded blankets
And thirty-seven bus tickets
And thirty-seven bars of gold
And thirty-seven fires
And thirty-seven belches later
He lay down in his hammock
For thirty-seven reasons.