One, two
One, two, three, uh
Yeah
I was working part time in a five-and-dime
My boss was Mr. McGee
He told me several times that he didn't like my kind
'Cause I was a bit too leisurely
Seems that I was busy doing something close to nothing
But different than the day before
That's when I saw her, ooh, I saw her
She walked in through the out door, out door
She wore a
Raspberry beret
The kind you find in a second hand store
Raspberry beret
And if it was warm she wouldn't wear much more
Raspberry beret
I think I love her
Built like she was
She had the nerve to ask me
If I planned to do her any harm
So, look here
I put her on the back of my bike
And-a we went riding
Down by old man Johnson's farm
I said now, overcast days never turned me on
But something about the clouds and her mixed
She wasn't too bright
But I could tell when she kissed me
She knew how to get her kicks
She wore a
Raspberry beret
The kind you find in a second hand store
Raspberry beret
And if it was warm she wouldn't wear much more
Raspberry beret
I think I love her
The rain sounds so cool when it hits the barn roof
And the horses wonder who you are
Thunder drowns out what the lightning sees
You feel like a movie star
Listen
They say the first time ain't the greatest
But I tell ya
If I had the chance to do it all again
I wouldn't change a stroke
'Cause baby, I'm the most
With a girl as fine as she was then, oh, oh yeah
Raspberry beret
The kind you find in a second hand store (the kind you find)
Raspberry beret
If it was warm she wouldn't wear much more
Raspberry beret
I think I, I think I, I think I love her
Raspberry beret
(No, no, no)
The kind you find in a second hand store (no, no, no)
Raspberry beret
(Tell me where have all the raspberry women gone?)
If it was warm she wouldn't wear much more
Raspberry beret

The place smells the same. Garlic, undergraduate angst, oven flame.  The menu hasn’t changed. The Antony and Cleopatra.  Italian sausage and snake meat. The Macbeth. Cooked in a cauldron.  Blood sauce won’t wash off. The Julius Caesar.  Served bottom side up.  You have to knife it from the back. The Timon of Athens. Only bitter, separate ingredients, overcooked to black. The Frankenstein.  Assembled from ingredients at hand.  Served smoking from a jolt of high voltage. The Dramatic Irony. It’s a surprise.  Everyone at your table knows what you’re getting while you cover your eyes.

You said tragedy means playing out a ****** hand. The game has to end badly. Bigger Thomas. Joe Christmas.  Hamlet.  Everybody dies.  No choices. The end. I said, no, it means you have a fatal flaw.  Macbeth and Ted Kennedy—ruthless ambition.  Gatsby—pride. Lear—vanity. Richard Nixon—douchebaggery, deep-fried. Bad choices.  

“Can’t be both,” you said.  “One is character, the other one’s fate.” “What if character is fate?” I asked smugly. “Then we’re *******, Heraclitus. It’s late.”

I smoked a pipe.  You wore a beret and severely bobbed hair. I wrote sarcastic love letters to the universe. You wrote hate lyrics to Ted Hughes, love notes to Jane Eyre. We kept relations on an intellectual plane. You had a set of big firm ideas, dark-eyed principles, and a dimpled scorn of life’s surly crap. My eloquence was tall, square-jawed, curly, tan.  Together we solved the world’s big problems as only undergraduates can.

“Can pizza be tragic; or is it merely postponed farce?” I wondered. “Here it is clearly both, though not at the same time,” you said. “Does tragedy plus time equal comedy?” “Sounds right.” “No, tragedy plus time is any order in this place on a Saturday night.” After what seems like decades our orders finally arrive.  

“What did you get?” I asked.  “Looks like the Double Tragic,” you replied. “Flawed choices and fate. I leave you. You were unfaithful to every love sonnet you ever wrote.  Yet you are the first man who makes me feel loved, the only one who ever will.  I strain for that feeling again and again but it becomes a boulder that keeps rolling back down the hill. And fate—my beautiful ******* that got so much attention from men will **** me.  The only thing they will ever nurse is a cancerous seed. You?”

“The Too-Many-Choices, done to perfection. Choosing everything means choosing nothing. Loving too many women, I love none.  I follow a simple path home but try to stay lost. Living in the space between lost and found has a cost.  My life becomes a solitary pilgrimage to no place.”

“Let’s not reduce our lives to a Harry Chapin song,” we agreed. So we toasted the beauty of what never was. I went back to my hotel to write, found my way to a few easy truths, and called it a night.

the other day i sat alone having lunch in a McDonalds.
i found the Big Mac enjoyable and the wedge fries good enough
but what i truly loved was the cold-*** Oreo McFlurry.
actually, that's a half-lie because the cold-*** Oreo McFlurry
wasn't the only thing i truly loved from that McDonalds lunch.
when i was McSpooning the creamy goodness using my left hand,
the hand that should be reserved for ice cream related endeavors,
this girl wearing a polka-dot dress and a beret came in, stood in line,
and i heard her order: Big Mac, wedge fries and an Oreo McFlurry.
she anxiously tapped her right foot, the foot that should be reserved for tapping,
and i felt love for the first time in months. i didn't know her but i was in love.
it was the kind of momentary love developed for strangers that makes you think:
"****. I wish we could sit together in silence at a McDonalds, mouths full,
eating Big Macs, wedge fries and McFlurries being the envy of McDonalds residents."
and then the stranger asks for her order to go and the universe collapses.
the momentary love begins fading slowly and the fantasy is enveloped by greasy fast food smells.
reality is a *****, girl in the polka-dot dress and beret.
it's been 5 minutes since you left. i miss you.
it's been 10 minutes since you left. i've tried forgetting you.