Although a little conceited, 'tis a funny fine thing,
To understand a language without the sting,
Of having studied and learnt in parts,
Following the grammar from end to start.
Yet the latin spreadeth tongues distinct,
So similar words they may still be link'd,
And if ye knoweth enough of the Italian,
The Spanish comes easily, as doth the Catalan.
Knowing a language be but fine,
Yet how to use it? Without crossing the line!
Social norms be whate'er they may,
Don't translate! Word for word does aught but say!
To use a language fluently,
Forget thy norms else shoddily,
Understood perhaps thou shalt be,
Albeit unto a simpleton seemest thee!
Here amongst these Mediterranean realms,
'Tis easy to find plenty of pearls,
From around The Middle Sea doth they roam,
In search of diversion far from home.
Of Castilian ladies I know but little,
Loud in speech and rather fickle,
By anyone's terms be they fun to play with,
Games be fine for a while, take or give!
Of Greeks plenty have I already said,
An amiable people not easily lead,
Astray as others, as seen much hath they,
Of life still invoking Venus to play.
When I sayeth Venus rather Aphrodite I meant,
'Tis a habit to Romanize here and there instead,
Of using the fully embodied forms,
Those voluptuous Greek Goddesses! Far from the norm!
Howe'er we consider the Greek past her prime,
The Roman Gods be naught but pale copies or rhymes,
With feelings of Pagan rites old in glory,
Parnassus, unlike Vesuvius, ne'er vented her fury!
Yet far from the woes of her native land,
A Barcelonese lass found aught more grand,
And out of wedlock gave o'er to he,
A heart and soul bleeding that none other couldst see.
The Catalan tongue doth sing unto ye songs,
Alike to Castilian rights and wrongs,
They be fellow lovers of the Middle seas,
Where Olde English passions hardly couldst appease!
Grasp'd in an embrace, oh so tight!
Maintain thy freedom! Falling far from sight!
A Sunday afternoon following the harmony of night,
Rest thee well in amorous laze, a predictable plight!
¡Extranjeros! Better the two!
Foreigners find one another far from blue!
Southern passions doth barely contain,
Exhaust thy inner feelings 'till naught remains!
Romance be a thing pointless to speak of,
Knoweth we all of obsessions below and above,
In poetry 'tis common I grant thee that,
Yet to other devices, oft' crude words be spat!
To this I shalt not herein resort,
Don't be modest now! I hear ye retort!
But deny the tragedy its poignant end,
And from inner suffering life doth mend!