Romance of the Loon (or Lunatic)

I was given a writing exercise: translate this foreign-language poem. And this is what I came up with, derived from a Garcia Lorca poem (originally in Spanish).

 The Loon's vine all but fragmented,

consumed by the wicked poles of looking boys.  

The boys felt marinated, on air, moved to move the moon with their bravery

and collection of bra straps.  Their ensign, purely lubricated, seedily dropped to the floor.

Hey Loon, Loon, Loon!  

Yes, the venerable lost gitanos, hairy cons with hearts, they colored the year white.  

But by how many Lolitas and lost guitars?  

The sober donkey called,

Luna, hey Luna, Luna, Luna.

After the storm, the jam, the piss,

my luscious almond view disappeared.

Dressed, they danced an ascerbic tocando by tamborine and lamplight,

their teeth fragmenting the ten-count, the olive oil dazzling the Venetians and suave gitanos.

"Hey, boy, how can you not show me your arbol?" the loon cried.

He showed his dandy teeth again, bared his vine to her,

and they slipped again dancing beyond the veil,

and I only heard the air 

and the rhythm of wings

as they plied a soft velando.

Author's Note

It's somewhat of a nonsense poem, but more about a mood, I think.