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letra de lament - dylan thomas

when i was a windy boy and a bit
and the black spit of the chapel fold,
(sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
i tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
the rude owl cried like a tell-tale t-t,
i skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
nine-pin down on the donkey’s common,
and on seesaw sunday nights i wooed
whoever i would with my wicked eyes,
the whole of the moon i could love and leave
all the green leaved little weddings’ wives
in the coal black bush and let them grieve.

when i was a gusty man and a half
and the black beast of the beetles’ pews
(sighed the old ram rod, dying of b-tches),
not a boy and a bit in the wick-dipping moon
and drunk as a new dropped calf,
i whistled all night in the twisted flues,
midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
and the sizzling beds of the town cried, quick!
whenever i dove in a breast high shoal,
wherever i ramped in the clover quilts,
whatsoever i did in the coal-black night,
i left my quivering prints.

when i was a man you could call a man
and the black cross of the holy house,
(sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
brandy and ripe in my bright, b-ss prime,
no springtailed tom in the red hot town
with every simmering woman his mouse
but a hillocky bull in the swelter
of summer come in his great good time
to the sultry, biding herds, i said.
oh, time enough when the blood seeps cold,
and i lie down but to sleep in bed,
for my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!

when i was a half the man i was
and served me right as the preachers warn,
(sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
no flailing calf or cat in a flame
or hickory bull in milky gr-ss
but a black sheep with a crumpled h-rn,
at last the soul from its foul mousehole
slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
and i gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
gristle and rind, and a roarers’ life,
and i shoved it into the coal black sky
to find a woman’s soul for a wife.

now i am a man no more no more
and a black reward for a roaring life,
(sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers).
tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
i lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw–
for, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
in the coal black sky and she bore angels!
harpies around me out of her womb!
chast-ty prays for me, piety sings,
innocence sweetens my last black breath,
modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
and all the deadly virtues plague my death!

- dylan thomas

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