To what good, in the alleys of the lilacs,
O caliper, do you scratch your buttocks
And tell the divine ingenue, your companion,
That this bloom is the bloom of soap
And this fragrance the fragrance of vegetal?
Do you suppose that she cares a tick,
In this hymeneal air, what it is
That marries her innocence thus,
So that her nakedness is near,
Or that she will pause at scurrilous words?
Poor buffo! Look at the lavender
And look your last and look steadily,
And say how it comes that you see
Nothing but trash and that you no longer feel
Her body quivering in the Floréal
Toward the cool night and its fantastic star,
Prime paramour and belted paragon,
Well-booted, rugged, arrogantly male,
Patron and imager of the gold Don John,
Who will embrace her before summer comes
The Unpacking
Why do you look upon the beauty of the newly blossomed women?
Oh accountant uptight and foul
Smooth talking man bound beautiful young virgin
Who woos this beauty, whispers words of comfort and commitment
She knows him, his reputation for stealing virgin-hopes
Still he professes again, he is clean
He defines his love, that grows only in beauty not libidinous
Yet she will forsake herself for hope
Spring at hand, love falling round about her envious
She can believe he loves her most
She too has a yearning to be smelled
She will not pause for rumors
Poor fools! she for her naivety and he for his lust-spoiling
He takes his last looks at his prize not yet soiled
Blinded to the mulch he will create
Her ecstasy fulfilled in matrimonial union
One night of beautiful ecstasy for her one night with a fragile flower for him
Continuously horny, harsh, tenably unreachable man
The patron has bought and sold her as the vileness Don John
Alone she will wilt without loves moisture, unwant wilted flower
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