Forbidden Fruit/Fruit interdit
Imagine then a little boy who finds
A house set back alone in orange trees
That has its windows barred but has no blinds.
Inside a wonder world of toys he sees,
The sorts of toys which everyone like him
Would want. He tiptoes high to look inside
And scans a room absolutely abrim
With painted soldiers and a horse to ride,
With marbles, balls and one bright cowboy gun.
So Rimbaud felt when he was calmly told
That the one author, yes, the very one
He wanted most was prudishly controlled
So he could never hold it. “There’s no God,”
He muttered. He was forbidden de Sade.