with a gigantic blow-up panda on it.
My eyes dazzle at the sight
of Beatrice Portinari—
Florence, Via Del Corso.
Or don’t my ear drums shatter!—
not a panda,
but an entire rock-and-roll band-a!
OK, let’s see—you said you saw the most beautiful dance-a,
because your friend never practices his flamenco.
But, yes, we both saw the writing on the wall:
BUMB, was the word—I couldn’t really grok it—
a 500-pound walrus-of-fate kind of thing,
or a tush-bomb, better yet!
So I DID take a leak in the snow,
and I’d do it in real life, too!—
Wenny, the walking toilet (as I’m called)
will trudge on till they reach the inn,
where all the blesséd sinners sit together on the same bench—
which finally makes no sense;
but the statue will sing:
Don Giovanni, a cenar teco m’invitasti,
e son venuto. Here I am!
Grasp a stone hand,
taste a stone tongue,
smell the brimstone!
My heart is steady,
I am not afraid.
I will come!
My eyes dazzle at the sight
of Beatrice Portinari—
Florence, Via Del Corso.
Or don’t my ear drums shatter!—
not a panda,
but an entire rock-and-roll band-a!
OK, let’s see—you said you saw the most beautiful dance-a,
because your friend never practices his flamenco.
But, yes, we both saw the writing on the wall:
BUMB, was the word—I couldn’t really grok it—
a 500-pound walrus-of-fate kind of thing,
or a tush-bomb, better yet!
So I DID take a leak in the snow,
and I’d do it in real life, too!—
Wenny, the walking toilet (as I’m called)
will trudge on till they reach the inn,
where all the blesséd sinners sit together on the same bench—
which finally makes no sense;
but the statue will sing:
Don Giovanni, a cenar teco m’invitasti,
e son venuto. Here I am!
Grasp a stone hand,
taste a stone tongue,
smell the brimstone!
My heart is steady,
I am not afraid.
I will come!
