Oh those cuffs,
those well ironed pleats,
Unnatural ends
to bellbottomed seats.
They comb
straight hair and mow straight grass,
But give them a
bamboo snare for a hare
And they bring
you back a caniche,
Plucked thin and
through, missing two teeth,
Wrought with
dull iron and blood-sucking fleas.
New cars upon
trains, old trains upon tracks,
Fields of dead
corn and medieval foot paths.
Where do they
lead, to a wine-soaked event?
To Adam, to Eve,
or to my love's golden tent?
Cabbage,
cabbage, cabbage (des choux, encore des choux!),
From the lonely
waitress, in sensible black shoes,
Who waited so
alone in a blustery wind,
The bottle of
cheap red wine tucked under her chin.
So help me, help
me father god above.
If I am your
son, then show me your love.