Question:
Can you tell me
the way to the maternity?

Answer:
Walk on a beach
in the West of Ireland
at four in the morning
in the middle of summer
with a man who's six foot two
and you'll get there
sooner or later.

Question:
Is his height the problem?
Answer:
No, the problem rises
when you stop
to look at the moon.
Question:
So is the moon
the problem?

Answer:
No, not the moon itself
but the glare from the moon
which makes you say
in seagull Russian,
'Fuse me bix foot skew
in your stocking wheat
bould you kind werribly
if I jay on the bat of my flack
for the bext three-quarters of a bour
the boon is milling me.'

Question:
And that's the answer?

Answer:
No, that's the question.
When he lies on top of you
for the next three-quarters of an hour
shielding you from the light of the moon
the answer comes to you.

Question:
Like a flash?

Answer.
No, like the thundering tide.