Καλλιτεχνικός Σύλλογος Δημοτικής Μουσικής Δόμνα Σαμίου

Auntie Nikolakena, you haven’t acted very wisely;
you silly bitch, you’ve sent your girl to gather sticks for kindling.
The young lad at the trysting-place now holds her firmly by the hand.
I pull her this way, she pulls that; the good Lord wills it so: she falls,
I on top and she below.
I kiss her on the forehead, so. ‘To hell with that, you blockhead, you’.
I kiss her in the neck as well. ‘To hell with that, be off with you’.
‘But dearest girl, I love you so; your neck’s so delicately moulded,
your hair resembles silken threads, neatly braided into plaits’.
I caress her, kiss her warmly. ‘Now that’s the sort of thing I like’.
Then she tells me: ‘Lower down, lower down, below the neck’.
I cup her breasts within my hands, and she tells me: ‘I am faint’.
Next she tells me: ‘Lower down, lower down, below the breasts’.
So I grasp her at the navel. ‘Lower down, you idiot!’
She says to me: ‘No, lower down, below the navel, lower down!’
I clutch her by a single knee. ‘You’re still a clumsy lad!’, she says.
I wrap my arms around both knees. ‘Now you’re playing tricks with me’.
Then I raise them in the air, and ask her: ‘What do I do now?
At that she tells me: ‘Higher up, higher up, above the knees’.
And so I grip her by the thighs. ‘There, it’s getting close to it’.
Then she tells me: ‘Higher up, higher up, above the thighs’
In between those thighs of hers, I descry a Turkish mosque.
The hodja¹ enters right inside, with his red fez upon his head.
One belly beats upon the other; great is the delight that follows.

Translated by John Leatham

¹hodja: a Mohammedan cleric