I'm lazing near the clear lagoon,
gawping at the gelid moon.
The starry sky is free of clouds,
I'm aroused by maple boughs.
My fresh firewood should soon burn.
Hungry flames should twist and turn.
Flaming gold and fiery red.
Hot enough to bake my bread,
and melt my glorious gruyere,
while I’m letting down my hair.
After being slow and steady,
my campfire is now ready.
Who cares if they brand me a sleaze.
I’ll still gorge my bread and cheese.