Ôte ta jolie robe d’or,
Tes roses bas, chemise nette,
Et découvre pour moi le con,
Le con que j’aime, aux cheveux noirs,
Le cul où tu m’admets ce soir,
Les seins je baise, que j’adore,
Tous les secrets de ton boudoir.
Thou art the fair, the wise, the divine,
Thou art our mother, our goddess, our life,
Thou art our passion, our sorrow, our strife,
Thou, on whose forehead no lights ever shine,
Thou, our Redeemer, our mistress, our wife,
Thou, barren sister of deathlier brine,
Venus Callipyge, mother of mine!
They are decayed, but thou springest again,
Mother of mystery, barren, who bearest
Flowers of most comeliest children, who wearest
Wounds for delight, whose desire shall stain
Star-space with blood as the price thou sharest
With thy red lovers, whose passing pain
Ripens to marvellous after-gain.
Yea, we must praise, though the deadly shade
Fall on the morrow, though fires of hell
Harrow our vitals; a miracle
Springs at thy kisses, for thou hast made
Anguish and sorrow desirable
Torment of hell as the leaves that fade
Quickly forgotten, despised, decayed.
Who like thyself shall command our ways?
Who has such pleasures and pains for hire?
Who can awake such a mortal fire
In the veins of a man, that deathly days
Have robbed of the masteries of desire?
Who can give garlands of fadeless bays
Unto the sorrow and pain we praise?
Which of the gods is like thee, our queen?
Venus Callipyge, nameless, nude,
Thou with the knowledge of all indued
Secrets of life and the dreams that mean
Loves that are not, as are mortals’, hued
All rose and lily, but linger unseen
Passion-flowers purpled, garlands of green!
Never a son nor a daughter grow
From your waste limbs, lest the goddess weep;
Fill up the ranks from the babes that sleep
Far in the arms of a god of snow.
Conquer the world, that her throne may keep
More of its pride, and its secret woe
Flow through all earth as the rivers flow.
Mingle, ye children of such a queen,
Mingle, and meet, and sow never a seed!
Mingle, and tingle, and kiss and bleed
With the blood of the life of the Lampsacene,
With the teeth that know never a pitiful deed
But fret and foam over with kisses obscene—
Mingle and weep for what years have been.
All on their sides are the wounds of lust,
Down, from the home of their auburn hair
Down to the feet that we find so fair;
Where the red sword has a secret thrust
Pain, and delight, and desire they share.
Verily, pain! and thy daughters trust
Thou canst bid roses spring out of dust.
O thy dark daughter! their breasts are slack,
Their lips so large and as poppies red;
They lie in a furious barren bed;
They lie on their faces, their eyelids lack
Tears, and their cheeks are as roses dead;
White are their throats, but upon the back
Red blood is clotted in gouts of black.