O gay Guy, your hat is troubled,
your shoes are smiling
and you live in Joy Park where Merry Widow dances in the merry-go-round,
in this place where Joy does not grow but is made by machines,
kept in photographic boxes,
compressed in $ coings,
wrapped in bank-bills -- the most joyful joy in the most colorful color of papier monnaie.
Men wish to be animals and that is why they dress their body with priceless skins and women
sing and carry feathers thinking they are birds;
but anyone of them believes in Humanity and they use Smile and Language as the Trade Mark of Spirithood,
and here is with every acquaintance the sophisticated smile,
that rouged smile like chocolate enameled quinine pills
-- the teeth.
O gay Guy, once cannot pip through the keyhole nor walk on horse-back nor hear a sintonic intermezzo
without feeling that a merry event is coming,
and I like the postal clerks, the whistles of locomotives, and the leaving planes.
My heart is bumping hot desires and I spread them on post-cards for onomastic congratulations
that I send to my friends in order to make them happy like the magazine-announcement's young girl.
This is the way to Gaiety.
But I don't believe in flowered beards, Guy;
nevertheless you keep a pale-pink flower as if it were an old gladness.
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