Dada Rascals

The young generation shouts “we don’t have a navel because we are descended from above.” We have no way to measure their eccentric conduct with an ordinary scale, they drink water from a toilet bowl, they step on a wall to urinate face down and nibble their own flesh burnt under the scorching sun, they shout mother down who watches them worrisomely with great care; they set against their father who reproves their mischievous behavior. However, the sisters of those audacious rascals have navels, they wear sleeveless slip-ons because they cannot afford neither sleeves nor shoulder straps, their lower garments are time worn jeans the miners discarded, its lower parts are gone above the knees and holes here and there. They stroll the shopping mall licking ice cream swaying from left to right and right to left exposing their navels. The rascals wowed peeping at their navels, they jump out from the alleys and admire their sisters’ graceful walking figure; then, they say “if I have a navel, I should have a home to return like the others,” though they always assert uglier is fairer and crooked is straight. I suppose probably they have a body temperature like all others, you and me.