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deepundergroundpoetry.com
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.
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.
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