A Hobo's Mumble

The following text is a compilation of Dickie Kinglsey's show Unemployed. I'm sorry if you are trying to Google him. All of these are the work by Wangdagen, a Douban user, who fictionalized the character and wrote it originally in Chinese. So credit goes to him (or her). Make sure you're capable of recognizing the swearing words and knowing how to use them. Otherwise parental company would be recommended if you want to proceed to read:

THANK you. Thank you all. You see, I’m a loser. I have no job, no money, no date, no pet, nothing at all. And I don’t look good. I know. I’m overweight, and my taste for clothes sucks— take a look at the t-shirt on me! I don’t even want to screw myself. Here’s my advice on how to get rid of masturbation: grab your mobile phone, open the front camera, and your right hand will say, “fuck off! I won’t jerk you off at this motherfucker’s face!”

I’m not saying I’m the top loser amongst all the losers in all the world. I won’t even count myself as the biggest loser in this auditorium with you folks, because you’re a bunch of people who can’t even get laid on a Saturday night, and have nowhere to go but come here to listen this motherfucker bitching along. I wouldn’t waste my time like that. Why not lie on your couch, watch Netflix and jerk off? Or is it because you had done that for 6 days and didn’t realize until today, “Oh, I’m not some kind of Columbian gorilla only obsessed with my own genital. I need to go out to be a normal person.”

I’m not the biggest loser. I just fit that criterion of a perfect loser, who is from a normal family, with an average IQ and average physicality, who, through his own efforts, becomes the perfect loser—as perfect as he could—yes, that’s me. I’m losing so completely that I need to talk about me being a loser in front of you to make a living. My father is surely proud of me!

But unlike most of the American parents, my father never said that to me. You know, the very words “I’m proud of you”. Every father is supposed to tell his kid that at least once in his life because it was written into the Constitution, and the law says if you don’t say it you’ll be sentenced to death.

I have every reason to believe that this sentence has been written into the Constitution, for I have never seen a parent in an American movie who doesn’t tell his kid “I’m proud of you.”

Your kid’s team won the game, and all he did was just stand in the corner, holding his bat throughout the game. “I’m proud of you!”

Your kid was admitted to a college, which, with due respect, even a hippo could go to if it could afford it. “I’m proud of you!”

Your kid lost his job because he was stupid, so he sat at McDonald’s and whined in the phone telling you he had no money to pay the rent. “Remember,” you said, “no matter what happens, I’m always proud of you.” – proud of him for what? For his being able to call you?

I was watching a movie about family therapy on Pornhub the other day—yep, I have family issues. Why do you think I’m complaining in front of you that my dad doesn’t love me? Of course I have family issues. Anyway, in the movie, there is a father and his daughter, who loves wearing gym tights, and she’s happy. She tells her father that she got chosen by the school’s team—I just noticed someone in the seats smiled and nodded—yes, you, in the back seat with a baseball cap. You’ve seen that movie, too? Gross! Now everybody knows that you love watching father-and-daughter movies. Pray that your friends or colleagues are not here.

So in an American adult movie, a daughter tells her father that she got chosen by the school’s team, what will her father’s response be?—“I’m proud of you!”—and he is proud of her, so proud that… never mind. I’m not going there. Just so you know, what happens after that breaks all the family ethics. Sick as he is, that father doesn’t forget to say “I’m proud of you”, but my father never said that.

Because he is not that kind of person, who talks bullshit like “good job”, or“well done”, or “terrific”… no. To be clear, my father is not dumb. His vocabulary just has no place for that kind of shit. I’m not blaming him or anything. I guess his father never said those words to him, either. No hard feelings..

Anyway, did you ever play that game Word Relay when you were kids? One kid whispered something into another, who passed what he heard to the next, until the original “Julia’s got a beautiful puppy” ended up being “John raped his mom’s shoes”, and everyone had a good laugh about it. In my opinion, family education is just like that game. My grandfather whispered something to my father, and my father turned around, stepped close to my ear and said, “you’re a pile of self-important turd.”—How am I supposed to pass that to the next generation without hurting them? “You’re a pile of confident excrement”? That’s the best I could do.

Folks always say “You’ll end up being just like your parents”. Do not underestimate that statement. They are not just saying it. That’s a fucking prophecy, just like the one that “she will prick her finger with a spindle and die”—you will become your parents. My father never said a nice word, neither did I. I can’t praise others. When my ex was in her new skirt and asked me “How do I look?” I raked my brain before I finally said “You look alright.” Alright? That’s why she became my ex. Because my performance in bed had always been ALRIGHT.

I don’t know how my father got himself married. Maybe in his age, it was not that illegal to hit a girl with a bat and drag her to the basement and keep her there until she said “I do”.

Isn’t that clear that I’m a completely loser. I’m over 20, and I’m still trying to blame my original family for all the problems in my life. I don’t have a real job, because I didn’t get enough candies in my childhood; I fell to the ground the other day because when I was learning how to walk my father wasn’t there; I couldn’t find someone to sleep with because when I was five I lost my teddy bear. So when can I be a grown-up and come to realize that for all the problems in my life, it’s the fucking society to blame.

I was born in the 1990s, when people were allowed to become losers. Let me put it this way, in the 90s, the society and schools were teaching us to meet the losers’ criteria. The world had been established. There was not much left for this generation to do about. So they came up with the internet. That way we could stay at home and masturbate.

Now you could hardly hear folks talk negatively about the millennials. It’s not because the millennials are mature enough to outgrow all their shortcomings, but because we are too old to be targeted. We’re worthless. We’re outdated. They used to say the generation of X were selfish, and irresponsible. We still are selfish and irresponsible. But nobody gives a shit about us anymore. Where is the fucking limelight?

Of course I know where the limelight has gone. It’s on the stupid generation of Z now. So when did it come to me that I was old? It’s when I noticed unconsciously that I tended to put the adjective “stupid” before every one who was younger than me. How old are you? 20? I don’t know you but I know you’re stupid.

It takes a lot to accept the truth that you don’t belong to the youngest generation anymore. I don’t like talking to the young. My ears reject everything they say, it’s just a body reaction They might be talking about art, history or politics. But simply by the way how their lips move, I can tell they are saying “I want chocolate, chocolate, more chocolate.” Don’t take me wrong. I have no bad intention for young people. I simply hope from the bottom of my heart that they are still feeding on shit.

It’s so annoying to hear a young man complaining that he’s old. I’m sorry I’m doing exactly the same thing right in front of you. But, hey, I’m a fucking millennial. It’s embarrassing for a person to be stuck between 25 and 30 because statistically you’re still young, but truth is, we all know after that phase you’re pretty much dead.

When you’re over 25, you can tell that your body is obviously undergoing some changes. The moment you get up from bed, you joints crack. My plan is that I won’t hear those sounds until I’m 60. Nobody ever told me that those sounds were gonna last for fucking 50 years.

All the shit that you expected to see in other people now is all coming out of your body. Once I was in shower and I got a feeling that something—a lump or whatever—coming out of my anus. I quickly tucked it back inside. Anyway I searched “lump around anus” on Google and arrived at this conclusion: I got intestinal cancer and there was only 3 months left for me. But I was lucky, you know, ‘cause I had a talk with my friends—yes, straight guys do talk about their anus and it is quite normal—and they said they also had that lump. As a matter of fact every person who sits in front of the computer for 8 hours has that lump, which has got a name— “the lump of the millennials”.

I even started doing health checkup every year. Now that I’ve got no real job, I don’t have what you call “health insurance”. So if I’m diagnosed with some kind of shit, I won’t be able to pay. The checkup, for me, is no different than “take a look at the food in the fridge, see if they’ve expired”. If they have not, I’ll keep living. But if there is cancer which costs hundreds of thousands, then I’ll go home and kill myself. I promise you ‘cause I don’t think my life is worth that much money. Don’t give that “Rest in peace” shit.

I remember when I was in grade 4, elementary school, I was asked by my teacher to fill out a family information form. I wrote “hobo” under the category “Father’s Occupation”. I just picked that word, and I was eager to show off my vocab. Besides, my father was a hobo at that time. However, my teacher had a private talk with me for being honest. How would I know back then that in 15 years I’d also end up being a hobo? You’ll always become your parents.

I don’t see any bad in being a hobo. All my jobless father does everyday is sit on a couch and watch television, or play cards at his friend’s. My mother will bring breakfast to the bed every morning. That’s my dream life, no kidding. But now that I’ve managed to become a hobo, how come I’m not living the life my father has?

Wait, it just comes to me—perhaps it’s little bit too late—that my father lives a comfy life not because he’s a hobo but because he’s married to my mother. But you know what, it’s not as easy to get those girls of the X generation hooked. In the past, it’s like the man only needed to say “look at me, look at me, I’ve got a dick. Marry me!” and the girl went like “oh, I need that dick. Otherwise I won’t be able to live. I don’t care if he’s an alcoholic, or a gambler, or prone to violence. I’m gonna marry him!” It doesn’t work that way anymore—unless you’ve got a huge super dick. That’ll do.

Today is the Dark Age of love. I don’t know how to get to know people. By “get to know” I don’t mean walk into a pub and sit next to a girl and crack a few lousy jokes and go to bed with her—that kind of “get to know”. What I mean is for you to truly understand her and that she understands you.

But the problem is, that’s fucking boring! You won’t be able to meet the Mr. or Miss Right on your first date. So you have to tell everything about your life again and again until 8 million girls in the world get to know that once you shitted on your pants when you were a kid. Of course those 8 million girls don’t fall in love with you for that.

But I have to do that, ‘cause nobody would ever find love at first sight when they saw my face. If I want to be loved, I have to give everything I have, and be smart, be funny, and make the girl believe that I will never ever bore her. If there is such a girl for me, just like that princess in the RPG game waiting to be rescued—alright I admit it is gender discrimination, but I have to say the princess is an independent woman and she is fully capable of solving her own crisis. The only reason she is staying in that tower to be rescued is because that way guys at the low end could have a channel to promote themselves to the top.

Anyway, if I know there is such a girl for me, and that all I need to do is find her against all the odds and love her so that we can live happily ever after, then I’ll do everything I can to find her. But truth is I don’t know for sure if there is such a girl. Maybe there is, or maybe isn’t. If there is, possibilities are she could be 80 already, or she has met someone else, or she is living in a country I’ll never be. I don’t know where to find her, but my right hand is right here with me…

No wonder people need religion. When you’re poor and lonely, of course you’ll picture someone to love you. Even if that someone is the reason why you’re poor and lonely, you’ll still try to persuade yourself into believing that this is the way how that someone loves you. Or, you can blame another planet that’s light-years away for your problems, although that planet wouldn’t give a shit about your existence and your miserable life. But hey, whenever your life goes wrong, it’s all because that planet was half-way in that damn orbit, which is fucking unnecessary.

It doesn’t hurt to believe in something. I don’t believe in anything, except the 5-second rule for food. Well, on second thought, I’m not a firm believer. It all depends. If the food is really expensive, then the rule follows even if it’s dropped into the sewer. I suspect that one day when I’m so poor that the moment I pick that food up from the sewer and am about to put it into my mouth, my father would show up behind my back and say “I’m fucking proud of you!” thank you, thank you all for coming. I’m Dickie Kingsley, and I don’t love you. Farewell!

Dressing Code for Summer

So I saw this man standing by the bus stop with a yellow jacket and a pair of blue jeans that went all the way down to his ankles and met the thick brown leather shoes tightened by black strings. It was high noon of the summer. The tarmac surface of the road had turned into a soft and watery layer, when it met the treads of my slippers I could hear a squeezy and sticky sound. Not a single soul could be found on the street except for the intermittent sounds of the cicadas somewhere in the trees, and me and this strange man, who was probably waiting for a bus, too.

I was in my sleeveless shirt and running shorts, and desperately praying for the bus to show up. But the man seemed to be enjoying basking in the sun, which had pushed me to run a red light when crossing the road. I hesitated for a moment, but finally decided to walk over and have a word with him.

"Hey, what's the matter with you?"
"Excuse me?" The man said with nonchalantly as if he was doing me a favor by giving me a response.
"Are you sick?" I continued. "Why are you wearing so many clothes and standing in the heat on a day hot like this?"
"Which is soothing and lovely, isn't it?" He grinned, and adjusted the woolly skullcap on his head.
Good old sun, how could I have just missed that! "Don't try to fool with me." I was a little irritated. "Look at you, and look at the world around! It's 39 degrees Celsius. Everybody is looking for a shadow, and my shirt is soaked in sweat."
"But the world, the temperature, the crowd and your sweat shirt do not concern me." He answered peacefully. "The weather is perfect for me, and I want to enjoy it as much as I want."
"Then just admit you're sick and I'll let you go with it." I stepped forward and looked him in the eyes.
"But I'm not sick." He shrugged and grinned again. "Why do you make such a fuss about a person enjoying himself in the sun? The weather never suits people in a fixed way."
He seemed to have made a point, but I didn't want to give in and leave him in the sun like that. "Then what if winter comes?"
"Well, there's never winter for me." He said. "Winter, what a terrible word! Whenever the heat wanes, I move like a migratory bird. Three month from now, I'll be somewhere in the southern hemisphere where the heat waxes and culminates."
"I see." I stepped closer to him and whispered in his ears. "You're not human. You're an alien. You are-- what the sci-fiction says-- a lizard-man. You're a lizard-man in human's form. And just like a lizard, your metabolism depends on solar energy-- the more heat there are, the more lively you are. Am I not saying the truth, lizard-man?"
The man winced and gave a whole-hearted laugh. "You're surely got a wild imagination. At first, you call me sick. Now you claim I'm from the outer space. But let me ask you a question, why are you so obsessed with the way I'm dressed? All because I'm different?"
"You're not different. You are abnormal!" I was irritated again by his "what's the big deal" indication in his tone. "You see that woman passing the road? She's wearing a lace shirt and a pair of short jeans. Her shoes are leather but they are sandals. I call that different. But YOU-ARE-ABNORMAL! Only the fact that you're a lizard-man explains this abnormality."
"But why? Can't a person just be the way he is? Doesn't he have a right to be abnormal as long as he enjoys himself and does nobody harm? I know it!" He suddenly stopped, approached me and, quite by my surprise, whispered in my ear, "You're a Communist Party member. Only the Communist Party wants to decided on people's personal affairs, like how many children they should have, what kind of book they should read or what movie they should watch, and now, what clothes people should wear in summer."
"No, I'm not a fucking Communist Party member!" I leaped and shouted, horrified by his accusation. But before I could find a reason to rebut him, he continued.
"Forty years ago, the Communist Party decided that the clothes wore should be of no more than 2 colors, so you saw people then either in blue or green. Thirty-five years ago, the Party decided that group dancing was obscenity, so they cracked down upon those who gathered and danced at night. Thirty years ago, the Party decided public kissing was a crime, so people were thrown into jail for doing that."
"You don't live in the past. Things change. All that you said are normal now." I finally got a chance to have myself heard.
"Yes, things change. I agree with you on that. Abnormal becomes normal. Like the
Communist Party forced women into abortion twenty-five years ago, but now encourages them to have more children."
"But the way you dress yourself in summer was abnormal fifty years ago, and will be still abnormal fifty years from now. Because it's a universally accepted"
dressing code proved by generation after generation that one doesn't do sun-bathing in jacket and long jeans and leather shoes."
"Well, I think you're a hard-core communist, only you've never realized it. Only the Communist Party tends to conclude things with the statement that there is a universally accepted truth proved by generation after generation. The way how the world runs is how the Communist Party sees it run. Whether a behavior is normal or abnormal is totally up to the Party's call. You've been trying to tell me that I've broken the dressing code, that only you're wearing clothes in compliance with it, the universally accepted truth, the rule of mankind, the law of historical development, or whatever you call it, which is bullshit!" He zipped his jacket tight, pulled down his cap so that it covered his ears, and said, "The truth is people can live whatever life they want to live." Finishing last words, he hopped onto the bus that pulled into the stop and disappeared.

So I lost the argument. But that was not the embarrassing part. What embarrassed me was that he labelled me as a communist, and a hard-core one? The truth is I never belong to any party or club. I don't even party! And I don't want to decide for anyone's life, certainly not his. But that son-of-a-bitch says he always lives in summer and follows the sun like a migratory bird. He certainly has got millions of money to do that. No doubt that he is a rich capitalist bastard. Fuck the capitalists and fuck the corrupt life they live! I'm going to report this strange man to the local bureau that oversees people's behaviors and let them keep a good eye on him.

Wait, I think I've got a better idea. I'm going to call on people to sign for a petition that we, the people, should wear clothes in accordance with normality. Wearing jackets, long jeans, leather shoes and woolly hats in hot summer should be deemed as abnormal and is not acceptable. Anyone doing that should be denounced and put into house arrest. I'm going to do that, and to be effective, I'm going to found a club and recruit people who share my view so that we can re-establish sanity in the way how people dress themselves. So if you're with me and support my cause, please make a donation to help us achieve that goal. My bank account: 1234-5678-8765-4321 (People's Bank, International).

Beware, capitalism is ruining us with its ideology. To exploit the surplus value of those garment makers, it even wants us to wear more clothes in summer. Wearers of the world, unite!

Trail Running on a Hot Day

The top of the hill was just about 15 meters or so above my head, and I could hear some indistinct voices coming down through the thicket up there. How strange that there were so many voices. All the other runners were either way behind me or way ahead of me. Those two runner who had just passed now resting and talking up there was conceivable. But the multiple voices I heard could be a group of people partying.

Am I having an illusion? I said to myself. Why is the song Stairway to Heaven playing in my mind all along? Yes, I'm buying my stairway to heaven. It was damn hot. The dry and stony trail I had just climbed through was unsheltered by any plant. Yet Robert Plant's voice was stuck with me. The soil was exposed to the sun, which now aiming at me freed from underneath the earth the heated air that hit me like steam coming out of a wok on the stove. But I could barely sweat. Neither could I barely move my heavy legs. I looked at my watch. It was 10:45. Had been 3 hours since I started, but the latest uphill 1km cost me 27 minutes. I checked the GPS. Still got 2km to go. But once I made it to the top, the rest would be downhill. Yes I need to hurry up. I thought to myself. My wife was waiting in her car at the foot and was going to take me back to the hotel for the check-out before noon.

The voices were clearer and clearer as I approached the hill-top. Wriggling past the last corner around the slab stairs, I finally saw the talking human beings. There were 8 of them, either standing or sitting in the shadow. One of them had lit up a cigarette and was trying to take some consolation from it. But there was a silent one lying still on the ground and was stripped off his shirt. His topless white upper body was leaning against a pair of legs that belonged to a 40-ish woman, who was shaking a piece of towel to create some coolness over him.

"Running on a hot day like this," the woman said, "everybody is a hero."
"Are his heart rates going down?" another man next to her said. He was about the woman's age, but shorter than her. "His HR watch is still beeping. He needs to be cooler."

The man struck down by the sun was about 25 years old or younger. His chest was heaving slowly as sweat trickled down and converged at his belly where most of his fat was accumulated. His eyes were closed, nostrils blowing out some light snores as if he was in deep and un-wakable sleep.

"Is he with you guys?" I asked and stopped in front of them, who had totally blocked the path.
"No. I barely know him." The woman said and turned her head to the back. "He is with her, the Hungarian Beauty. She says they come from Shanghai."
I looked over and saw a skinny blonde sitting on a rock in the shadow. She was sipping water from a bottle and wiping sweat off her forehead.
"You are from Shanghai, too?" A 30-ish man next to me asked loudly. "Whereabout in Shanghai?"
"Luwan District". The Hungarian girl answered in perfect mandarin Chinese. "I often run in the parks there."
"No wonder your face looks familiar." The man said, "I often do exercises in the Luwan Gym. Did you also run the Chaigu Ultra Trail earlier this year?"
"Yes, but I didn't finish. The weather was too awful."
"Hey, I was there, too. I must have seen you there, that's why..."
I decided to turn a deaf ear to their conversation and walked over to pull down the fainted man's calf sleeves. Although his legs were huge like two felled down trees, his muscles were soft, and the sleeves were soaked in sweat, it was not difficult for me to peel the fabric off his skin.
"That'll make him cooler." I said.
"Why don't you take off his shoes, too?" The short man said with an urging voice.
I hesitated for a while. I didn't like to take orders but nevertheless, I bent over to do as the man said. Shit, the shoe

strings were not tied but were fitted to a button and were wrapped in such a way that I tried but failed.
"Don't know how to unhook the strings." I said to the man.
The man looked at me and said nothing.
"Don't bother." The woman said, "He'd have to put on the shoes again. Leave them on. When he wakes up, he can just get going without the trouble."
"Can I walk through? I need to catch the time." I said.
"Oh, sure." The woman slided and made some room for me to pass.

When I was racing down the hill with the last bit of strength, Robert Plant was on again, "as we wind on down the road/ our shadows taller than our soul." You are wrong, man, there are no shadows at all. The sun is taller than my soul. And I kept asking myself, Are you really up for the 50km race 4 months from now in the same place? "It makes wonder, oooh, it makes wonder." Robert Plant echoed. But the song instantly disappeared when I finally reached the finishing line, an aid station set in a hotel's yard at the foot of the hill, and saw the watermelons, cherry tomatoes, milk shakes displayed there. As I was
gulping down the fruit and drink, a siren whistled by outside the hotel.
"Is it a fire engine?" one of the assistance girls by the desk asked, "It's so hot, could be a forest fire or something."
"I think it's an ambulance." the other girl answered, "a man's got a sunstroke on the hill, haven't you heard?"

大盘鸡

吃完大盘鸡，我老婆突然对我说：“快，把我举到头上。”

我说：“Are you chicking me？”

我老婆：“快，这是你的最后机会。再晚就来不及了。熬扫！”

我一把抓过她的腰，像翻一袋装着马铃薯的麻袋一样，把她举过头顶。“好了，快讲为什么？”

“唧唧复唧唧。”我老婆回答道，一只脚站在我的手上，展开双臂，摆出了一副要冲破天花板的飞天姿势。

“No chicking！我脚下的地板快塌了！”我大叫道。

“爸爸，你要挺住。”我女儿手里抓着一只啃了一半的鸡爪，说：“你再坚持100分钟，我就把鸡爪奖励给你。”

“You son of a chick。快叫你妈下来。否则我给你暑假报100个补习班。”

我女儿扔掉手里的鸡爪，一把掰住我的肩膀，蹭蹭爬到我的头上，单脚站在了我的另一只手上。她弯下腰，凑到我耳边喊道：“你去报呀，报呀，you son of a chick！”

我松开了屏住呼吸的肚子，脚底一沉，一声轰隆的巨响，远方落日的最后一道光照在我额头突出的静脉上，宛若血光的诗意。“听着，我没有给你俩上保险。”我托着头顶的娘俩沉入了楼下。

A Tribute to L. Cohen

Now Mom takes your hand 
and she leads you to the grassland 
She is wearing a hat and sneakers 
from teenie-weenie her favourite 
And the sun pours down like honey 
on our lady who loves winnie the pooh
And she shows you where to look 
among the garbage and the flowers 
There are kites in the sky
and daisies having grown since July
There are children in the morning 
They are running out for life 
and they will run that way forever 
While Mom holds the thread
and you want to fly away from her 
and you want to travel blind 
You know that you can trust her 
for she's touched your perfect body with her milk and blood

   by  Imyorphan Zen

Morning Hysteria

when I shouted to her
as a desperate father:
DON'T TOUCH IT!
My daughter pounted her lips
and burst into tears--
tears like falling raindrops,

My exploding voice scared her
fingers out of the little rosy plastic potty
she was sitting on and shitting

I dashed into the kitchen
and grabbed her hand
it was late--
her finger tips had already got it

Be your dady's good girl
Don't play with your poo
It's dirty and gross, my wife said
trying to talk sense
to her while preparing breakfast

I felt as if I had wronged her
as she was sobbing in her shaky body
she was only 11-month old
too young to tell
poo from toy

I shouldn't have shouted. I said
in an eased voice, and then
cleaned her and washed her hands
I gave the potty a glimpse--
her poo was innocent and healthy

I couldn't ask for more
after days of her indigestion

Scarborough Fair

The original Chinese is written by Scavenger, which can be read HERE. I don't think my translation does justice to his delicate and beautiful description of the sad story. I just couldn't help translating it into Engilsh.


Before I broke into pieces, I was in love with a girl.
I won't say silly words like each girl is different in her own sweet way,
for I had never known any other girl before her.
or rather, had never GENUINELY known any.
We have discussed this many times.
Even now, I can still feel in her young heart, deep down,
that my self is still there.
Her heart is warm.
Apart from that, I can't tell you more.

When dusk was falling, that girl would cook a wok of tasty Russian soup.
To do that, she would rise early in the morning and
climb over the mountains and valleys all the way to Scarborough Fair.
Her shoes and socks were soaked in dew
must have been uncomfortable, wasn't it?
But she still carried a delicate smile on her face and walked through the fair
picked out the suitable ingredients, whose names I couldn't tell,
nor their distinctive colours and scents.
But I stood by her quietly afterwards, listening to the things
she described to me one by one and that--
that black little cat hiding in the shop.
She asked me, with pushiness, to find
that kind of black little cat for her.

I pulled at her hair, and said "Don't worry."
Then I started on my cause to look for the cat she wanted.
I had no idea that I could have walked for so long.
News came from the other side that she dropped many tears
into the soup that had already become cold.
She sewed winter clothes in the hope of my return
but the needle pricked her fingers.
I also heard that they burried us in the mountain of Scarborough
because when we were in love we had dated
at the mountain foot in the early morning.
We quickly walked up to the top.
Her face was redened and she gasped
as she pinned a little flower onto my collar.

You probably don't know that we still meet in the morning
only we are never able to come down the mountain together
I have a messy memory but I remember in my descent
I've seen numerous cats, cats of all colours and ages
but never did I find a black little cat.