Friday, 25 August 2000

From "Se Celle"

By Villon trans. Calais.

She sure had me wrapped around her little finger
and could always make me believe something else
was happening. Expecting cake you got slag;
you wanted a Stetson, she'd hand you a hard hat
and a good thing; for sterling, she offered tin cansl
she'd deal you a full house, but she always called low ball.
The witch could always convince you
her shit was brilliant.

That heaven was an electric kitchen,
that cotton was cowhide,
that morning was really evening,
that left-over cabbage was truffles,
that a Burgie (of all shit) was a Heineken,
that a pig was a gaselle,
San Quentin a salon
or the landlord just a panhandler (her shit was brilliant).

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