I remember when
below the stage lights,
behind where bands played,
I watched girls cantering by,
hosiery worn thigh-high,
on an initial exploration
of fems below the hem
my very first time
visiting a Parisian cabaret.
I was fervidly mesmerized,
especially when legs kicked high,
giving a view previously unseen
by a lad turning twenty-one.
I clearly remember thereafter,
my father's howl of laughter,
etched forever within my mind
during a night of wine, roses
and women like Irma La Douce,
who fanned a doozy caboose
exiting mise en scène stage left.
Shrieking wolves yelped aloud,
clamoring for the cast's return,
which they promptly did
to dance another can-can.
Revelry abounded to a sound
loud enough to harm one's ears
but I didn't care in the least,
until the morn, when the sun
peeked its way thru the blinds
reminding me what I drank,
before I sank, passed out,
on the bunk above my pop
after a nonpareil night
commisioning my manhood.
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