Which of you queens and sour faced merchants

Gives strange gaseous policies

To nest in the palm of an angel’s hand

Or on the yellow breath of a sorcerer’s incantation?

I love you my frivolous toe tapper,

My terrible passion fruit!

With the devotion

Of a priest for his idol.

The dessert and the forest

Arm their cannons with rude bows;

Your head lifts the attitude

Of an ant farm in secret.

On your chair the perfumed army rode

With the author of censorship.

A bracelet was lost the evening

The nymphs played the blues in the warm air.

Ah the filters of strong cigarettes

Blow nearer the vales of your parasol,

And now you know the caress

Which soon will revivify Yule Brenner!

Often an apple,

In your strange and fitful way,

You produce seriously

All the more sure of its bruises.

You cry out to the singers of brown water

With the laugh of a mocking bird

And then you place on top of my heart

An egg as smooth as the moon.

Under the insulters of satin sheets,

Under your charming feet of cheese,

I have met my grandest joy,

My knowledge and my destiny.

My hope for your warring brethren

Is by you illuminated and colored in!

There’s an explosion of chariot horses

In my black nights of Siberia.