These precious words, each one
in the shop yo, everyone teary-eyed about my man.
Just funnel whatever inane idea into young servant girl
who was the most sensitive man I had ever seen.
It’s all yours. That which we call our disorder
becomes tasty family recipe for damn good lovin'.

He could fulfill himself with impunity and many spectators.
Born in paperback, we dread our prestidigitation.
No, it’s like shaving: you learnt of strangeness.
More ardor than my teapot, failure and obscurity,
jokingly sorrier he had achieved wonderful fragrance.
This was not how I’d imagined my mother
trying to see how long before he’d go muttonchops on me.

Our airship was destroyed the moment I turned into a big athletic baby,
outpouring of emotion, and slapping up my bitch.

Susan opened her purse and pulled out the loveliest little
feebleminded bore, conniving, decorous, and bordering on
figure of “Mr. Norris.” The cramps made off with my pocket.
It isn’t that I cared for bad violin, passionate drunk,
though I must admit such stimulating hours for six hours
and delirious applause about four in the afternoon
was truly hostile-slash-muy bueno.

Understand that in those days there was more weather.