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The turntable hacked up a melancholy blues The air was heavy with dust and odors Several zazous danced while holding to their hearts Short girls with spasmodic behinds In a closet, an amateur obstetrics couple Delivered themselves to games full of art and naivete Another in a corner attempted with ardor Tonsil-coupling, to music. Hands encountered one another under too-short skirts Drunk, two lovebirds—(what if I said: two dodos?) Looked everywhere for a bed; they were all full… Let this happy youth screw itself Why eradicate from them this impure manure If their hope restricts itself to rubbing membranes
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