So much of L' Orphee
plays in that grim middle-aged way
poor Spicer never lived to see
that its almost like I know better:
ie Jean Marais is how we're
supposed to look on the INSIDE
& those hoopleheads at the Cafe
rioting over Johnny Ray
as Mrs. Mills tinkles the 88's
& the Hugo Boss bike cops drop their skates--
what Martian could have predicted an Elvis
emerging from that thin Hugenot mess?
& why do the youngsters blame me?
Don't their radios get the CBC?