What klezmer I've coaxed
from my rough flugelhorn
plays taps at your heels.
Why is my instrument wrong for your needs?
Too long have my boots have bebouched
on your barren fields. Hands joined,
are you one with your sisters?
You jut from the lineup, though costumed alike.
(In the town of Bekesaba, each gown is unique.)
You'll dance for the rowdy crowds, dance
now for me. I crave the taste of peach ice cream.
Weave tatters of pink, leave orange-white trails.
(This scratchy collar of organza grows tiresome.)
Come, shark girl! Lay healing touches
with black-handed gloves crested yellow.
Snap-twirl and weave! Bow.
Dress right and salute.
Pull down your pennants at once and surrender!
Then lead me off-field to my spit-valve, alone,
where I must doff my shako.
*******************
The klezmer I coax from my rough flugelhorn
plays taps at your heels. Why is my instrument
wrong for your needs? Too long have my boots
debouched onto your barren fields.
Hands joined, are you one with your sisters?
I pick you from lineups in four-guarter time
(though in Bekesaba, each gown is unique)
You'll dance for the rowdy crowds, dance now for me.
I crave the taste of peach ice cream.
Weave tatters of pink; leave orange-white trails.
(This scratchy collar of organza grows tiresome.)
Come,shark girl, lay healing touches
with black-handed gloves crested yellow.
Snap-twirl! Glissande. Bow. Dress right and salute.
Pull down your pennants at once and surrender!
You lead me off-field to my spit-valve, alone.
And I must doff my shako.
*******************
I would strut to the bows of your weird parapet.
The klezmer I coax from my rough flugelhorn
plays taps at your feet. Boot heels
grind fescue on long-barren fields. Lithsome
legs stretch out and retract; hands join,
you are one with your sisters.
Throughout this summer of lime-chalk grids,
I'm tempted by sips- just bitter ades;
you'll dance for the crowds;
now dance for me, I crave
the taste of peach ice cream.
Weave tatters of pink; leave orange-white
trails; this scratchy collar
of organza grows tiresome.
Come, shark girl, lay healing touch
with black-handed gloves crested yellow.
Bring in the harvest, the fruiting of wine.
In the town of Bekesaba, each gown is unique-
down to the petticoats and crinolines.
Dance to the moon month, the gathering feast,
with sprung bottle perched gaily on head.
Weave tatters of pink; leave orange-white trails. (This scratchy
collar of organza grows tiresome.) Come, shark girl,
lay healing touches with black-handed gloves crested yellow.
Snap-twirl your Enfield ->dress right->; I'll salute.
Pull down your pennants at once and surrender!
You lead me off field to my spit-valve, alone.
And I must doff my shako.
