Across The Stream

Masutā's rowed across the little stream,    
Where we await his pleasure amongst trees;      
I hold the parasoru in this dream;      
My friend's in pink: fresh blossom could so please;      
      
Our lanterns will be red tonight, I think;      
At least I'm not aware he wants to use      
Another geisha, since we're on the brink      
Of giving cherī hōru;      
     
Every bruise,      
His bamboo cane produces, should soon earn      
Us our masutā's yen to buy new gowns,      
For him to strip when he needs flesh to burn;      
Let kyo's inkei sink, without sharp frowns      
Of impatience occurring, though trees screen      
The cherries, he desires, across the stream.