Información de la canción En esta página puedes encontrar la letra de la canción If I Were Tickled by the Rub of Love, artista - Dylan Thomas.
Fecha de emisión: 13.01.2014
Idioma de la canción: inglés
If I Were Tickled by the Rub of Love |
If I were tickled by the rub of love, |
A rooking girl who stole me for her side, |
Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string, |
If the red tickle as the cattle calve |
Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung, |
I would not fear the apple nor the flood |
Nor the bad blood of spring. |
Shall it be male or female? say the cells, |
And drop the plum like fire from the flesh. |
If I were tickled by the hatching hair, |
The winging bone that sprouted in the heels, |
The itch of man upon the baby’s thigh, |
I would not fear the gallows nor the axe |
Nor the crossed sticks of war. |
Shall it be male or female? say the fingers |
That chalk the walls with green girls and their men. |
I would not fear the muscling-in of love |
If I were tickled by the urchin hungers |
Rehearsing heat upon a raw-edged nerve. |
I would not fear the devil in the loin |
Nor the outspoken grave. |
If I were tickled by the lovers' rub |
That wipes away not crow’s-foot nor the lock |
Of sick old manhood on the fallen jaws, |
Would leave me cold as butter for the flies, |
The sea of scums could drown me as it broke |
Dead on the sweethearts' toes. |
This world is half the devil’s and my own, |
Daft with the drug that’s smoking in a girl |
And curling round the bud that forks her eye. |
An old man’s shank one-marrowed with my bone, |
And all the herrings smelling in the sea, |
I sit and watch the worm beneath my nail |
Wearing the quick away. |
And that’s the rub, the only rub that tickles. |
The knobbly ape that swings along his sex |
From damp love-darkness and the nurse’s twist |
Can never raise the midnight of a chuckle, |
Nor when he finds a beauty in the breast |
Of loever, mother, lovers, or his six |
Feet in the rubbing dust. |
And what’s the rub? Death’s feather on the nerve? |
Your mouth, my love, the thistle in the kiss? |
My Jack of Christ born thorny on the tree? |
The words of death are dryer than his stiff, |
My wordy wounds are printed with your hair. |
I would be tickled by the rub that is: |
Man be my metaphor. |