Shooting from the Hip #3 (Bolshevik Boogie)

Bolshevik Boogie and Soviet Swing;

nothin' else to it by the riverside that day.

Cheek to Cheek don't mean a thing

behind an iron curtain in a gypsy foray,

where medals are awarded

'for services to Polka', e'ryone talkin' jive,

bootheels shot from so much spinning.

We hadn't laughed so much since Grandma tried

to jump the wall or Uncle Alexei gossiped

he head off listening in for betting tips.

Notes on Breaking and Entering

You’d confiscated my key

so I climbed the drainpipe;

pulled pork, beets and brandy – I dined

well with the folk inside. With all that whisky

spilt down my shirt I couldn’t sit right.

I brought you wine and flowers;

your hound helped tear the trousers

from my legs. While he and I

were making friends, I found

myself chained to the radiator,

with a pair of silver bracelets

that match the drill sergeant’s

epaulettes – he was braced

against the wall, searching

for the alca-seltzer, pawing

through the kitchen drawers.

While a preacher at the faucet

claimed he was pouring holy water,

in the war room your butler

played checkers and a marching

band circled the dining table

breaking tea-cups and jesters

take the minutes of this farce.

All these itinerants were kept raving

by a the extenuations of an alleyway

medicine tradesman prescribing

alcohol for their sores. Offering

to waterboard me at no extra cost,

your lawyers billed the standard fee:

they’d smelt blood playing Double Dutch

underneath the hanging tree.

I wouldn’t’ve guessed I’d be

contested for your lionized

affections – I’d sooner be rid of you

than a pack of hungry dogs;

even with my dying cough I’d rather

roll between the stables,

with your vaudeville chicks painted

head-to-toe, bathed in laughter

and without their clothes.