Song of Solomon: Nine Months Later

If Solomon had waited nine months before writing his song of songs...

May he wash the dishes with the washings of his hands!
For your housework is better than wine!
Draw me after you and let us run away together!
For the baby has come into the king’s chambers.

While the King was at his table,
the diaper gave forth its fragrance.
I said to myself: I will change the diaper,
and remove its fragrance far from me.
In the tents of Kedar, far to the east:
They should be about right.

My beloved is to me like a pouch of myrrh
which lies all night between my breasts.
Beware, oh daughters of Jerusalem:
Do not awaken love prematurely,
For that kind of stuff is what got us into this mess
in the first place.

Like an air raid siren among the lilies,
so is my baby in the night watches.
In the shade I took great delight and sat down,
but her cry was loud in my hearing,
and there was no rest.

The king has brought me into his bed chamber,
and his banner over me is bottle feeding.
Sustain me with caffeinated beverages,
refresh me with ice cubes down my shorts,
for I am catatonic.

I adjure you, oh daughters of Jerusalem,
my beloved adjures you; our dog adjures you;
the dead adjure you from their graves:
that you do not arouse or awaken my baby
until she pleases.

***

How beautiful you are, my darling,
how beautiful you are!
Your eyes are like hollow caverns in the rock.
Your hair is like a flock of goats
that have descended into the depths and drowned.

Your lips are like a scarlet thread,
drawn tight against the slow, creeping madness
of sleep deprivation.
Your breasts are like two fawns,
twins of a gazelle,
only larger,
and they hurt more.

Your lips, my bride, drip honey,
or perhaps it is just drool:
I cannot tell for sure.
The fragrance of your garments is like
the fragrance of someone who has not yet showered today.

A garden locked is my friend, my bride,
a rock garden locked,
a spring sealed up.
And so I said to myself,
Man, it’s gonna be a long, long, long time.

***
My beloved is dazzling and reddish,
at least his eyes are.
The locks of his hair are like clusters of dates,
and that is as close to a date as I am going to get.

His eyes are like doves, gunned down
beside streams of water,
lifeless, and shot through with red.
His lips are lilies, sprayed with herbicide,
drooping, blubbering, entirely without character.

His abdomen is like a bowl of mashed potatoes,
inlaid with bacon.
His voice is raspy from singing of lullabies
late in the night watches.

His mouth is full of nonsense
and his jokes are not funny.
This is my beloved and this is my friend,
oh daughters of Jerusalem.

***
Who is this who groans in the dawn,
as pale as the full moon,
shrinking from the sun
as from an army with banners?

Oh you who lie in the nursery,
my companions are listening for your voice.
It is pretty hard to miss.

Hurry, my beloved,
and be like a gazelle or a young stag
on the mountains:we can catch a quick nap before she awakens.