|
Is the story of the depravity of the beat generation true? |
|
Daisy and Lily, lazy and silly |
|
Walk by the shore of the warm, grassy sea |
|
Talking once more neath a swan-bosomed tree |
|
Rose castles fourelles, those bustles where swells |
|
Each foam bell of ermine they roam and determine |
|
What fashions have been and what fashions will be |
|
What tartan leaves born what crinolines worn |
|
Yeah |
|
Queer, Queer |
|
Queer, Queer |
|
By green (thefis) pelisses or farlahine blue |
|
Like the thin plaided leaves that castle crags grew |
|
Or velours d'afrande on the water gods' land |
|
Her hair seemed gold trees on the honey cell sand |
|
When the thickest gold spangles on |
|
Deep water seen were like twanging guitar |
|
And like cold mandoline and the nymphs of great caves |
|
With hair like gold waves of Venus wore (Farta) fine |
|
Yeah |
|
Queer, Queer |
|
Queer, Queer |
|
Wild fire passion and impossible temper |
|
The nymph tagliongrisi the ondine wear |
|
Plaided Victoria and thin clementine |
|
Like the crinolined waterfalls nymphs wear beneath shawls |
|
Elegant parasols floating are seen |
|
The amazons wear balzarine blue |
