ditty for moya
One, two, three, four
Last week I was the mayor's projectionist
I projected for him many films of mountains
He took his right hand straight between his legs
And stroked himself until he bled
I did not complain
The pay was good and I slept well
No dreams
Our mayor hid his loneliness well
When he died, we had the rain
The mothers cried, the daughters waved