All Her Favorite Fruit

I drive alone, home from work

And I always think of her

Well 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 were 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 interventions distance of the embassy

The midday air grows thicker with the heat

And drifts towards the line of trees

Where 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 love, fecundity

Of life and love

Of life and love

Of life and love -Camper Van Beethoven