When the day wears its knickers of dusk, I can walk without leg I can talk without tongue I can drink without throat Just throw me bowls of wine The one, right from the forest Of dying stream But who needs streams to sanctify Satan to be a saint? I can swim in the sea of bear Just throw me sixty ounces: ale, lager, whiskey, gin My belly can drown India Ocean But a lush needs no counsel to be drunk Give me Everest of meat, There are free rides to my mouth, The tarmac of my tongue is laced slippery coal tar To transport morsels One just refined from the Island wild Of pounded yam, Forget not the toothpick To dredge the banks of my mouth But chicken befriends not, the meat consumers I need a nymphet dame, One that can play the tune of scrotum, While the whistle blows, Under the blanket of the night, Her ball must roll in the court till dawn, We must burn the chuckles’ candles