Arthur Rimbaud - To Music lyrics

On the square which is chopped into mean little plots of gra** The square where all is just so, both the trees and the flowers All the wheezy townsfolk whom the heat chokes bring Each Thursday evening, their envious silliness - The military band, in the middle of the gardens Swing their shakos in the Waltz of the Fifes: Round about, near the front rows, the town dandy struts; - The notary hangs like a charm from his own watch chain Private incomes in pince-nez point out all false notes: Great counting-house desks, bloated, drag their stout spouses Close by whom, like bustling elephant keepers Walk females whose flounces remind you of sales; On the green benches, retired grocers' clubs Poking the sand with their knobbed walking canes Gravely discuss trade agreements And then take snuff from silver boxes, and resume: "In short!..." Spreading over his bench all the fat of his rump A pale-bu*toned burgher, a Flemish corporation Savours his Onnaing, whence shreds of tobacco hang loose You realize, it's smuggled, of course; - Along the gra** borders yobs laugh in derision; And, melting to love at the sound of trombones Very simple, and s**ing at roses, the little foot-soldiers Fondle the babies to get round their nurses... - As for me, I follow, dishevelled like a student Under the green chestnuts, the lively young girls: Which they know very well, and they turn to me Laughing, eyes which are full of indiscreet things I don't say a word: I just keep on looking at The skin of their white necks embroidered with stray locks: I go hunting, beneath bodices and thin attire The divine back below the curve of the shoulders Soon I've discovered the boot and the stocking... - I re-create their bodies, burning with fine fevers They find me absurd, and talk together in low voices... - And my savage desires fasten on to their lips...