Song

I found my muster station, sir. My skin is patent leather. The tourists are recidivists. This calm is earthquake weather. I’ve used up all the mulligans. I’d kill to share a vice. The youngster reads a yellowed Oui. The socialite has lice. The Europe trip I finally took was rash and Polaroid, was gilt, confit, and bathhouse foam. And I cannot avoid the end: I will not die in Paris, won’t rest for good behind a painted mausoleum door. The purser will not find me mummified beneath your tulle, and Paris will not burn. Today is Thursday, so I’ll die. Come help me pick my urn.