Eat Your Fucking Heart Out Hervé Villechaize, Mate

(to be read over interchangeable cat purring and distant sirens)

‘Dapper’ suits me every single day of the week
… but, especially right ‘Now’.
I’m a tra-la-la-ing my whistled walk your way…
with an Inspector Clouseau trying to impress
Lady Litton across a dance floor shoulder-shuffle.
I absolutely, positively REEK of Champagne
and a bit of that ‘Favourite Thing You Save ‘Til Last’.
My Swagger (Massive Capitalization!)
and distilled ‘Indian Summer’ Charisma (See Above!)
are both Infectious and Contagious…
as I pass-by the Street Corner Sweethearts,
I share, hey, I’m that kinda guy, yeah,
some of my Magnetic-off-the-charts Glory.
“We’re Merely Two Steps Away From Victory!”
I reply to their “Whoop Whoop’s”
and blown-with-a-vengeance, war-painted kisses.
A single Policeman upon his early evening Beat,
steps aside, and respectfully doff’s his helmet
(That Doesn’t Happen Very Often, Unless You’re Me!).
There are no ‘Red Rags’ or ‘Bulls’ in sight…
just that Wonderful Fantasticness rainbowing
the Future which I’m a-dance-stepping into… ahhhhhh.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer, who’s currently up to his elbows in Magic, and long may it remain this way. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.