Rashberry Whine
There once was a raspberry wine
it’s said that it tasted divine
and made with such humor
that it had a rumor
of seriously crossing the line.
For once you had gotten a taste
you quickly succumbed to a haste,
though savor of beauty
all berry and fruity
you’re forced to be part of a race.
It quickly developed a rash
produced then the centuries smash
a blow with such force
that your screams would be hoarse
while you painted a toilet’s moustache.
There once was a drink with such fame
that Rashberry Whine was its name
though cherished and hated
severly debated
it still is the centuries game
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Tu ha’ ‘l viso più dolce che la sapa,
e passanto vi par sù la lumaca,
tanto ben lustra, e più bel c’una rapa ;
e’ denti bianchi come pastinaca,
in modo tal che invaghiresti ‘l papa ;
e gli occhi del color dell’utriaca ;
e’ cape’ bianchi e biondi più che porri :
ond’io morrò, se tu non mi soccorri.
La tua bellezza par molto più bella
che uomo che dipinto in chiesa sia:
la bocca tua mi par una scarsella
di fagiuo’ piena, sì com’è la mia ;
le ciglia paion tinte alla padella
e torte più c’un arco di Sorìa ;
le gote ha’ rosse e bianche, quando stacci,
come fra cacio fresco e’ rosolacci.
Quand’io ti veggo, in su ciascuna poppa
mi paion duo cocomer in un sacco,
ond’io m’accendo tutto come stoppa,
bench’io sia dalla zappa rotto e stracco.
Pensa : s’avessi ancor la bella coppa,
ti seguirrei fra l’altre me’ c’un bracco :
di che s’i massi [?] aver fussi possibile,
io fare’ oggi qui cose incredibile.
You have a face sweeter than boiled grape juice—
it looks as if a snail had walked across it,
it shines so much—and prettier than a turnip;
and teeth as white as parsnips,
so much so that you could entice the Pope;
and eyes the color of a medicinal brew;
and hair whiter and blonder than a leek;
so that I’ll die, if you give me no relief.
Your beauty seems much more beautiful to me
than any man that’s painted in the church;
your mouth, it seems to me, is like a sack
filled up with beans, just like my own is;
your eyebrows seem tinted from the frying pan,
and curved more sharply than a Syrian bow;
your cheeks, when you sift flour, get red and white
like poppies in fresh cheese.
When I look down upon each of your breasts,
they look like two watermelons in a bag,
so that I’m set on fire just like tow
even though I’m worn and broken by the hoe.
Just think: if I still had the cup of beauty,
I’d follow you through the other girls like a hound;
so too, if getting blocks of stone were possible,
I would make incredible things here today.
— Michelangelo
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