O'Hara, "Renaissance"
Bang your tambourine! kiss my ass, don’t mind if they say it’s vicious—they don’t know what music should do to you. Now, while the drums are whacking away and your blond eyes stammer like two kinds of topaz knocking together, we’ll wear out all the instruments they usually beg with—the hand-organ and ocarina and dirtied trumpet—and brighten them up! In the midst of these mad cholers where love becomes all that’s serious we’ll cling like hunks of voluptuous driftwood, our heart for a sail, the sea will sigh with relief and end its moan to clap us as happy kids! savages ripe from the trees. Frank O’Hara