Bobbya Poem by Pierre Rausch

Not succeeded
Breath on her shoulder
Her share
Bread on my hand

Bobbya in the neighborhood
To the latter quarter
Nevertheless, when she combs herself
It was what they'd want

Bobbya as it flowed
Her own intitution, her own
Oh! how she would have liked
Not impossible to defend

Just feel how my hands hold
Happiness in good season
Oooo
Not impossible to defend

To the latter piece
A coquet moment
Bobbya, when she'd comb it
Acquinted nevertheless
A distant moment
At my sewing sedan
What splendid coat, what pity

To be, send it to me
Our child is ill with a malady
Since I come back to be send
Since Bobbya is going away

To be send to me
Tommorrow
What splendid things to listen
All at once