the fishermen dance at the inn

- you can hear it along the street

and down at the quay:

that the fishermen dance at the inn –

 

- and lord my god, how they dance

like large petroleum motors

and barrels on their way down the stairs,

it is sturdy legs which pound,

so the girls sweat with happiness,

how strong and handsome he is,

and then he gets fish and money.

when she carefully presses with her thigh

she hears the tinkle of silver,

and a red-bearded, horned hand,

it squeezes and pinches and searches –

and the swarm rolls along the floor

and the boards rock like decks –

 

- the violins rub and squeal.

the musicians’ glasses, they’re empty.

but the beers bubble and splash

and run in brown throats

so the adam’s apples jump

and the legs tread along the rhythm.

for the fishermen dance at the inn

so the sweat ooze and trickle,

and eyes and bodies meet,

while the swarm rolls along the floor

and the boards rock like decks –