The waiter brought the tray,
as the colors slowly changed,
melting ice diluting liquor,
better drink it that much quicker.
The winds arrived as did the rain,
the roof blew off, sounded like a train,
headed toward the ivory coast,
with vestal virgins, whose minds were closed.
Songs were playing anyway,
as the poet had his say,
telling us about the truth,
that was really never proved.
I showed my cards at hands end,
then I asked my friends to lend,
with ante for one last play,
I wandered through, but could not stay.
There she was, the redhead there,
dancing, pale skin and a chest that's bare,
swaying once more to the beat,
later I caught her on the street.
I took her home for no reason,
told her lies out of season,
she paid no mind as I played the radio,
then we did the night fandango.
Inspired by an axle by Scott F. Hemmingway and Whiter Shade of Pale