Returned from Mehico he’ll grab,
If he has luck, a tahicab.
And shouting to the driver: “Son,”
He’ll shout, “make haste to Lehington
And Sihy-first.” And now he’s there,
Ehaling fresh monohide air.
Manhattan leaps from plinth of stone;
His soul sings like a sahophone.
“A Hex on the Mexican X” - David McCord