Song

I found my muster station, sir.

My skin is patent leather.

The tourists are recidivists.

This calm is earthquake weather.

I’ve used up all the mulligans.

I’d kill to share a vice.

The youngster reads a yellowed Oui.

The socialite has lice.

The Europe trip I finally took

was rash and Polaroid,

was gilt, confit, and bathhouse foam.

And I cannot avoid

the end: I will not die in Paris,

won’t rest for good behind

a painted mausoleum door.

The purser will not find

me mummified beneath your tulle,

and Paris will not burn.

Today is Thursday, so I’ll die.

Come help me pick my urn.