Thou Shalt Conform to Google’s Dictates or Be Demonetized.
(The P.C. Police would shred this love poem with redacted lines and phrases, completely missing its charm.)
I think there is in this the stuff for many lyrics:—
A dago fruit stand at three A.M. the wop asleep, his woman
knitting a tiny garment, laughing when we approached her,
flashing a smile from white teeth, then weighing out the grapes,
Grapes large as plums, and tart and sweet as—well we know the lady
And purplish red and firm, quite as this lady’s lips are ….
We laughed, all three when she awoke her swarthy, snoring Pietro
To make us change, which we, rich paupers, left to help the garment.
We swaggered off; while they two stared, and laughed in understanding,
And thanked us lovers who brought back an old Etrurian springtide.
Then, once beyond their light, a step beyond their pearly smiling
We tasted grapes and tasted lips, and laughed at sleepy Harlem,
And when the huge Mick cop stomped by, a’swingin’ of his billy
You nodded to him gaily, and I kissed you with him looking,
Beneath the swinging light that weakly fought against the mist
That settled on Eighth Avenue, and curled around the houses.
And he grinned too and understood the wisdom of our madness.
That night at least the world was ours to spend, nor were we misers,
Ah, Morningside with Maytime awhispering in the foliage!
Alone, atop the city,—the tramps were still in shelter-
And moralizing lights that peered up from the murky distance
Seemed soft as our two cigarette ends burning slowly, dimly,
And careless as the jade stars that winked upon our gladness ….
And when I flicked my cigarette, and we watched it falling, falling,
It seemed a shooting meteor, that we, most proud creators,
Sent down in gay capriciousness upon a trivial Harlem—
And then I madly quoted lyrics from old kindred masters,
Who wrote of you, unknowing you, for far more lucky me-
And you sang broken bits of song, and we both slept in snatches,
And so the night sped on too swift, with grapes, and words and kisses,
And numberless cigarette ends glowing in the darkness
Old Harlem slept regardless, but a motherly old moon—
Shone down benevolently on two happy wastrel lovers ….