When Señor Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious danced into a Boston tavern,
dandified in his seersucker suit & reeking of Jeris,
smelling like a member of a barbershop quartet,
he was labeled “that strange foreigner” whose name
no one cared enough to learn how to pronounce,
so he homogenized it to Mr. Super,
pasteurizing his accent to the milk-white of the 1%,
becoming the ideal American denizen.