Lycambes Talks to John
(In Hell)
Why that wild poet came to me to damn me
I cannot fathom. On the blood-soaked isle
How learned he bitter songs of lost Iambe,
Or that a cup-shaped breast is nothing vile?
Enough of that....I loved Neobule;
My love the Lesbian puritans despised,
For was I not her father? Yes, you see,
My dear John Keats, I'm psychoanalyzed!
Her eyes like poppies and her silken flanks
Like trembling leaflets kissed by wanton rain;
Her hair a twilight — Him have her? No thanks!
Archilochus should ne'er that thorax stain.
And so I parted them, and here in hell
We're drinking tea from a Grecian Urn long after —
Your Paphian Fanny let tubercles quell
Ethereal passion: I know it by your laughter!
Why that wild poet came to me to damn me
I cannot fathom. On the blood-soaked isle
How learned he bitter songs of lost Iambe,
Or that a cup-shaped breast is nothing vile?
Enough of that....I loved Neobule;
My love the Lesbian puritans despised,
For was I not her father? Yes, you see,
My dear John Keats, I'm psychoanalyzed!
Her eyes like poppies and her silken flanks
Like trembling leaflets kissed by wanton rain;
Her hair a twilight — Him have her? No thanks!
Archilochus should ne'er that thorax stain.
And so I parted them, and here in hell
We're drinking tea from a Grecian Urn long after —
Your Paphian Fanny let tubercles quell
Ethereal passion: I know it by your laughter!
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.