The moon tonight looks like a golden gondola sailing on a black sea
only casting anchor at dawn. I remember a gondola trip in Venice
grey water, cabbage, onions and apple peels, I wished the gondolier
had been quieter. I sailed across the Black Sea once, from Georgia
To the Dardanelles, and sea was frosty white.
We anchored just outside Istanbul waiting for clearance, small boats
came, sold us sweet wine and liqueurs. After an endless journey on
an old ship we drank too much and got sick, but for a few hours we
forgot about the poverty of our wretched life.
An endless voyage to Reykjavik, Iceland, the sea around the island
was dark blue. But the beer there was so insipid that we had no chance
to forget our misery. Moon, it has no business looking like a gondola,
it is a balloon. So bring in the empty horses; suave was David Niven
you couldn’t see he was acting his socks off.
