‘Farewell’, we thought the Four bade,
To the angering crime of Raid,
And suddenly they vanished with Brown’s Motorcade,
Sprouting disappearing wings!
‘The Four Accursed Things!’
Off with a B-M-W of superb grade,
Its color, a firm promise never to fade,
And sleekness, a salute to whom had it made …
And into the matter stung cops said to wade,
Badly wanting their hands...
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