Monday, May 23, 1983


The birds of paradise 
seem to get stuck up tourist noses 
and the only real cure 
is to spend some puka-puka.
The wahines in bikinis on Waikiki 
give rise to the mail expectations 
but the fish don't mind 
and that's the current count in the end.
We all shaka-shaka, dakine, okay-okay, hang loose.
The sun says it's okay-okay underwater, she fine.
No Pele tears here
Pele, she quiet for now.
Missionary man, he slapped her down good.
But she, like yeast bread in a bowl, rising. Rising.
Soon she make ready for the oven.
Aloha, Mahalo, mahalo.


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