Through the village uneven road you drive,
on your little moped and under a silken blouse
the contour of your wonders are dancing to a tune
vibrant in your brain and tenderness;
short your skirt legs kept,
oh, so chastely together.
The breeze caresses golden hair
and is not restricted by a boring helmet;
yes, I know that you are not naturally blonde
but who cares when you stop,
get off by the post-box
to see if you have received a lover’s letter.
Then I deviously touch the moped’s warm seat
and take pleasure of my indecorous dream.