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Versuri All Her Favorite Fruit

I drive alone, home from work And I always think of her Late at night I call her But I never say a word And I can see her squeeze the phone between her chin and shoulder And I can almost smell her breath faint with a sweet scent of decay She serves him mashed potatoes And she serves him peppered steak, with corn Pulls her dress up over her head Lets it fall to the floor And does she ever whisper in his ear all her favorite fruit And all the most exotic places they are cultivated And I'd like to take her there, rather than this train And if I weren't a civil servant, I'd have a place in the colonies We'd play croquet behind white-washed walls and drink our tea at four Within intervention's distance of the embassy The midday air grows thicker with the heat And drifts towards the line of trees When negroes blink their eyes, they sink into siesta And we are rotting like a fruit underneath a rusting roof We dream our dreams and sing our songs of the fecundity Of life and love Of life and love Of life and love

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