pompede frito, pompede frito,
pompede frito, pompede frito, pomp-
A mosquito lands on the strings of the violin
and it sings
of a girl who is never just a girl
without a girl friend to tell her
how to. She is a copy cat
and jealous too. She would steal
all your nightly thoughts
because she doesn’t know how
to be girl, like the girl
that you are. When you rain,
you rain emerald green and bronze,
you rain pastel colours and a perfectly fitted mac.
The cobbled streets, when the stones are wet,
are not an obstacle course for you.
When she rains, it is pale blue and confused.
She recedes. She is always receding.
She slips and stutters and never catches
the right glance at the right time.
She thinks herself a sad accompaniment,
lets other airs sway her from herself
as she words the melody in her mind: