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Fiesta
It was a strange sort of day
A Heavy treacley sky
That seemed too thick
For any bird to even try to fly.
The city lay in waiting for
Celebrations to begin
The Fiesta of Fiestas
Days of mildly hedonistic sin.
He Danced a Mexican Hat Dance
His sombrero slung on the floor
And then to rapturous applause
He went and Danced it once more.
The Toreador in the corner
Sipped at his third Pink Gin
And waited for the Marshal
To signal the Fiesta to begin.
There were Castanets and Maracas
And a heady Flamenco Guitar
To disturb the sleeping drunkard
As he snored away in the bar.
It was all a much of a nothing
Thought the resident Fiesta clown
As he fingered the tasselled rope
That let the scenery slide down.
Over in the Central Prison
Warden served tea in every cell
Then notified the residents
By three rings of the prison bell.
Just a matter of routine he thought
As he picked up his sombrero hat
And walked quietly back home
To feed his waiting tabby cat.
Tomorrow just after dawn would
Start much more of the same
As they entertained the tourists
In their daily entertainment game.
It’s the same the whole world over
They’ll make do with the tried and trite
Do long as it’s sunny and warm
And they get the timings just right.
Copyright ©
Terry Ireland
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