there’s a lady in that pretty-hoe town
(i wish you could meet her
sailors N knights N poets N priests)
a pretty-hoe lady, by the way
writing praise songs in kiswahili
while straightening her stockings
or painting her lips
or taking a deep one from her cigarette
or walking right over you
just like that
i wish i could take your hand
and walk you up to that heavenly cell
where she proclaims
another one of
those narcotic songs of hers.
she walks in beauty, that one,
as some other guy said once,
big heart short life,
this you should know.
All the best for your big day, short lady! I#m sorry for being late (as usual).
Yet I uttered some wishes, my love, the whole candle-thing, as you can see. May they all come true.
Could you feel anything already?
(remembering the days and nites)