(Playing the double bass nostalgically, Johnny Raducanu) Remember the religious day of old when you and I, Shut in our yellow submarine, would sail all on our own, Our progress aimless, peaceful, with pavements for a sky,Along old sewers teeming with butterflies forlorn. The city high above us would hurtle past on rails, While through the walls long iron pipes were running left and right.You'd roll a heavy cannonball of ivory, so paleYet brownish in between your thighs all frothy with delight. As in triumph we hoisted our dewdrop – spangled banner – The towel strewn with raw pearls by our emerging dream – "O let both fire and flood waves succeed us in like manner", Into your floppy nymph ear I whispered with a scream. Your strawberry, you understood, was under lock and key,Like in some secret treasure trunk, its seals a thousandfold.Imprinted upon wax by hot lips melting suddenlyThe noon and dusk succeeding the first morning of old.
by Emil Brumaru (b. 1939)
