The scribe scribbled in pointed prose,
Writing the missive with his ink soaked nose.
El Presidente invitation to a party grand,
For nobles far flung across an enchanted land.
He ruminated the words so as to be clear,
Struggling to define the who, what, when and where.
In the musky corner of his hovel room,
He consulted with magic the portended gloom.
Rolling with thunder an arc shot across the vault,
A spirit’s voice proclaimed the day would be without fault.
The scribe scribbled faster consulting his master’s list,
For he knew uninvited nobles would really be pissed.
Alas and alack time had worked its evil task,
Memory had faded so he consulted a tequila cask.
The golden warmth of the brew up lifted his addled brain,
Shaking his body with giggles mordant and insane.
Drooling he squinted his blood shot watery eyes,
Confused and confounded he sobbed whimpering cries.
There he saw a parchment hanging on the wall,
Rising he staggered toward it swearing lest he fall.
He had swallowed the worm that now wiggled within,
And it spoke in a voice condescending and thin.
“Senor, queire usted por un fiesta mas grande,
Un dia con musica, mujeres, comidas, tequila y brandy?”
Not understanding the words or really giving a damn,
He poured another flagon downing it with a slam.
But as always the worm was now in complete control.
He approached the parchment with a staggering stroll,
Holding his gnarled hands to his unshaven face,
The scribe knew the worm had his brain replaced.
Thus he pointed his finger to a blurry calendar page,
With foaming spittle on his lips he cried the ‘when’ in rage.
The worm had won; ‘arriba’ it would have its say,
The when ‘September sixteen’- Mexican Independence Dia.
El gusano-gritó: “Viva el Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla.”
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour