In the water of the clear fountain ...

In the water of the clear fountain
She was bathing - with nothing on
A gust of wind, rain from the mountain
Showed us all, as she was born.

Damsel in distress, she made a sign,
Asked me to go and seek,
Leaves of rose, tulips divine
Before someone could get a peek.

With a few petals of a little rose,
I covered her up to the cuff
But the beauty was so very small
That a single rose was enough.

With the branches of a little vine
I made her a pretty skirt buff,
But the beauty was so very small
That a single branch was enough.

She clasped me with her arms so tight
Thanking me for the clothes so crude,
I took her with such manly might
That she was soon again in the nude.

The game must've pleased the maker,
Because at that fountain again,
She would have a bath - often
Praying - please let it rain!
Let it rain!

Being a tribute to George Brassens

I heard him play,
I heard him say -
All those words -
All those chords.
But it's the song he sings that enchants me.

Umbrellas and women, lost in the rain,
Little boats - losing their way
And bigger battles of heartless pain.
And the swinging evening on the quay.

Gorillas that sodomize grown men,
Girls that don't come home
Uncles lost in a lion's den
And a meeting of two children grown.

He's sung it all - written it all
Straining from June to May.
He sleeps quietly with all wherewithal
But he lives, to this jolly day.

He sings - through electronic means
And through little boy-birds.
I sit here enrapt, speechless.
Speaking only through my words.

He enrages, stupifies, offends.
What if he lived! I'd smack his face.
Then kiss him - but alas he mends,
His ways - and vanishes without trace.

Leaving behind that hateful smirk
Like the Cheshire cat - in form.
And of course, those haunting songs
Springing now - from the lips of a new born.