From Here To Alaska

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins, je t’aimais, je t’aimais!
Everything before you blunders may be,
those pathetic girl-children in my princedom by the sea;
none were so dulcet or angelically heady.

Never have I experienced such agony.
Exhibit A: Humbert Humbert, foul, bereft.
Jury, exclude me from the names of old paedology
(admittedly justified on account of her age),
shielded as she was from my aging ape eyes
by her mother — who ultimately knew the sort of jay
I was, thus our forbidden love. Chastised as moral decay,
our modern human passion was consumed by a hell
furnace of localized lust. As I look back on them,
those wretched months of yore, ladies and gentlemen,
you surely can see how I fell victim to the throe
of her scarlet rose, that dazzling poppy;
I, a bastard infatuate who ignored her Cue.

Oh, my girl, we shall die happily ever after. Come as you are
to my waiting arms, radiant, relaxed; caress
me with your twilight eyes — for all the world, ma chérie petit!
But this is the only immortality I may share with you.
Lolita, my Lolita, qu’ai-je fait de ta vie?

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, if I could trouble you
longer in my melancholy, and with utmost respects:
Only her absence from the concord of children’s voices is why
she is my sin, my story— my darling, dolorous and hazy.

[Courtesies and apologies to Vladimir Nabokov and Tim Minchin for the inspiration.]

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