THE DON COMES AFTER THE KNIGHT. & JUANITA ?
SHE STAYS IN BED Duane Vorhees |
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It was June. The wounded moon perfumed her room like an open pomegranate.
The wounding moon filled night's gloom with silver hues as soft, as pale, as the spoons in her cabinet.
Under the moon the music bloomed, the crickets crooned, the crickets danced like castanets in her courtyard.
And moonlight shone on silver spurs, on silver saddle, as El Moro's mare rode in hard.
Oh yes! He was bold and, yes, oh so glorious! -- Oh, famous he was, like a pharoah.
His name was in stone, so widely he was known, as a romantic caballero.
And his fingers could dance on his strings as quick as the wings (as sharp as the sting) of mosquitos.
And his guitars under the stars were the hearts of all senoritas.
And Juanita was soft, and Juanita was pale, the mirror of her prayers in cathedral.
And Juanita a dare, Juanita a taunt, a jeer at the heart of our jihadic hero.
So he rode in hard, he rode in proud, he dismounted his mare. And then, oh yes, then he mounted another.
And when he had left, her passion was spent. And also quite spent was her silver.
When her brother, the Don, learned what had gone on, his anger was hot jalapeno.
With the sun on his gun, he came on the run, a-riding upon his honey palomino,
vowing the end of young uppity men. Revenge is what he was after.
And on he rode, shining in gold, in pursuit of the bold silver spurs, silver saddle.
CC