Or the tango is done with a thin black mustache,
A wide scarlet sash,
black boots and a whip.
Or the tango is done with seafaring trash,
Reeling from hash,
fresh off a ship.
Or the tango is done as a dangerous dance,
A treacherous step, and if one should trip,
The frail body breaks with a snap and a twist,
And a gold watch slips on to a thick tattooed
wrist,
And a grey merchant ship turns black in the
sun As it heaves to the east when the tango is
done.
Butterflies mounted on fields of black velvet,
Neatly
arranged
in gleaming glass trays,
The night Etruscans play follow the leader,
Forever around
the edge of a vase.
The phonographs playing an old broken record,
A tango, and over and over it plays,
Over it plays,
over
it plays.
A medieval tapestry hangs like a warning,
A needlepoint forest of dark green and brown,
The scene is the hunt,
you will notice the hunter,
He takes careful aim as your eye travels down,
And finally rests
upon the real victim,
Lying quite still in a silk dressing gown,
Lying quite still at the edge of the carpet,
One arm flung out for the peacocks to peck,
Blending in well with the blue and green background,
Except for the bright scarlet sash round the neck.
He was a collector of beautiful strangers,
And life was a party right up to the end,
The door always open to love and love's dangers,
Who did it?
A lover,
a stranger,
a friend.
Butterflies mounted on fields of black velvet,
Neatly arranged in gleaming glass trays,
One night Etruscans play follow the leader,
Forever around the edge of a vase.
The phonographs playing an old broken record,
A tango,
and over and over it plays,