The turntable hacked up a melancholy blues
by Boris Vian
The air was heavy with dust and odors
Several zazous danced while holding to their hearts
Short girls with spasmodic behinds
In a closet, an amateur obstetrics couple
Delivered themselves to games full of art and naivete
Another in a corner attempted with ardor
Tonsil-coupling, to music.
Hands encountered one another under too-short skirts
Drunk, two lovebirds—(what if I said: two dodos?)
Looked everywhere for a bed; they were all full…
Let this happy youth screw itself
Why eradicate from them this impure manure
If their hope restricts itself to rubbing membranes?