I imagine she used to be
A stewardess
But now she just floats around
The Christmas tree
And takes her top off
As I drink rum.
The penumbras of the ceiling fan
Moat our holidays,
And we don’t make a sound;
And yet we move
Just as cunningly as bush-hunters
With our pantomimes
Of the lusty young.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem