A SARDINE IN OIL

In its tin box Of ordinary tinplate A sardine in oil With fine olive oil Stuck under her girlfriend Dreams of escape;

And his head cut off Headless in summer Like a king in winter Was once Hidden in a newspaper A liberal newspaper Comes to set her free.

Body taking the lead The head the bicycle The green bicycle Pedaling towards his mother Her mother fishes She swims belly down.

A peppery gendarme Peppered and smoked Paused on a bidet A beautiful white bidet White and smart Gallops in his footsteps.

The tail of the body drips Drips onto the road Smudging a speed bump of the soul;

Here comes the herring On his dada Azor Azor eats his bit And at a quarter past three He goes off in a big swerve.

The matamore is wrong Tort a le hareng saur.
An oil glide In fine olive oil Of a rascal's tail And we close the can;
The tin can Ordinary tin Ordinary in hell.
A sardine on Sunday Ate herring It came from a can From a tin can.

Serge PENIN - Poem DADA