MY RAGGED COMPANY
As the cellist played a gigue, Bach,
at Virgil’s, a cantina on Salem Street
known for their garlic martinis,
I overheard a man say to a woman:
we’ll be flying to London to see Queen
at Wembley, without Freddie Mercury,
once again. And that’s how I knew
how I knew it was spring, how I knew
it was time to wax my barque, my balls,
wipe the dew off my cheval mirror
to reckon who’s the prettiest of all,
and beckon the huntsman’s long knife.
at Virgil’s, a cantina on Salem Street
I overheard a man say to a woman:
at Wembley, without Freddie Mercury,
how I knew it was spring, how I knew
wipe the dew off my cheval mirror
and beckon the huntsman’s long knife.
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