As the grossness of spring lolls its head against the window
As the grossness of spring lolls its bloodied head

Curare! Curare! Curare!
Brogue cries from the street
Curare! Curare!

As the grossness of spring rose a tumor
balloon to squeak against the window
With the grossness of spring staining into the walls

The chair had been shifted ever so slightly
Say five feet or two centimeters
The prints of my fingers dusted from doorknobs
A lamp had been dimmed
Some saw dust where a ring had been
Where nice girls were turned into whores
Gardens with fountains where peacocks had strutted
Where dead children were born
The splendour of tigers turning to gold in the desert
Pale meadows of stranded pyramids

Sonny boy, such a sonny boy
There's a song in the air
Curare! Curare! Curare!
But the fair señorita don't seem to care
Curare! Curare! Curare!

As the grossness of spring lolls its head against the window
As the grossness of spring lolls its bloodied head
I merely got up so slowly
Shuffled across the floor
Closed the door on the landing
Descending the stairs
Dipping into the street
The paralysed street
Brogue says: Good afternoon!
I say: Good afternoon!
It's a lovely afternoon
Yes, it's a lovely afternoon

Into pockets un-stitching so weighted with pins
Into eyes imploding on mazes of sins
The puddle beneath the cork bobbing on a mild chop
That rolled in off the river Dix and the open water beyond
Brogue says
I'll punch a donkey in the streets of Galway
Me
I'll punch a donkey in the streets of Galway
Brogue
I'll punch a donkey in the streets of Galway
I'll punch a donkey in the streets of Galway

Sonny boy, such a sonny boy
In her voice, there's a flaw
Curare! Curare! Curare!
Sonny boy, bye bye sonny boy
E-e-aw and e-e-aw