Deep Bosom Woman

It's Sunday. Time for a deep bosom diving with Wayne. (Wayne Pereira, prononced PAY-rarer)

Deep Bosom Woman

From "At Last!" the only known full-length album by Wayne See Pereira (b. 1949). Pereira was a stand up comedian/musician hobo who was seen in the Morgantown WV area during the late 90s and early 2000s, selling homemade books and performing at open mics. He worked at the WVU library, where a collection of his work including audio cassettes, VHS tapes, photos & writings are currently held. He has a significant limp which was a result of brain injury after getting in a car accident some time before 1974 which left him in a coma.

I've got a deep bosom woman
She knows exactly what I'm looking for
Oh my deep bosom woman
You know she squeezes me til I don't want no more

Oh she squeezes me all night long
From sunset to dawn
Til I can't go on
And I beg her no more

Oh my deep bosom woman
She knows exactly what I'm looking for
Oh my deep bosom woman
You know she squeeze me til I beg her to stop
Oh she's squeezin' out every last drop of my love
Until I beg her "Stop baby, now!"
Oh I just can't take it any more

Hey my deep bosom woman
You know she does exactly what I'm looking for
Oh, I got a deep bosom woman
Oh she squeeze me til I can't take it no more

I got a deep bosom woman
Hey my deep bosom woman

You know I'm looking for a deep bosom woman
Yeah I'm looking for a deep bosom woman
You know I'm looking for a deep bosom woman
Oh I'm looking for a deep bosom woman
Yeah a deep bosom woman

My research on Wayne seemed promising at first, I mean full of heartwarming anecdotes. But nah! After reading the letter he sent to Sun Magazine in 1988, I was overwhelmed with immense sadness thinking of the injustices and violences suffered by some and especially by those who are unable to defend themselves. And my search was over.

From The Sun Magazine (March 1988), Wayne wrote from Richmond, West Virginia about his "first memory"

Someone had scribbled on the door, right underneath the knob. Though I wasn’t quite four years old at the time, the pattern of childish scribbling is still clear in my mind. As I was the oldest child, my father insisted no one else was capable of having done it. I insisted I was innocent. He cursed me and called me a liar. In a drunken rage, he beat me, to teach me “what happens to liars.” My mother pleaded, “Just tell him the truth and he’ll stop hitting you.” I swore to her I had not done it. “Well, tell him you did anyway,” she said, “just so he’ll stop.” I refused. He beat me more, but I never did confess to the crime I did not commit.

Thirty-five years later, I return to that first vivid memory to understand other events of my life. When I have remained quiet at times I should have voiced a truth, was the unconscious memory of that painful beating hindering me? When I have been a martyr, stoically accepting public humiliation for defending unpopular ideas and causes, was I exhibiting a stubbornness learned at the hands of an alcoholic father?

One thing I know can be attributed to the beatings I received from him. I do not drink.

laugh so as not to cry