There is a women, I must tell.
Who thinks to be Quaintrelle.
I doff my hat, for she is swell.
La Tomatina, to her, is like a brick.
And to keep so dapper, must be psychic.
'Cause foppish fashion is her trick.
Her Hacienda claims she's worth a ton.
And eloquent as her fulgurous Jargon.
Forget the bulls, with her I'd run.