Be a man, stew in your misery quietly!
If you must, sauce your lips with strong drink
Unrequited love and/or executions pending,
give license to this.
Because we were adequate in bed?
Or because of our delightful head games,
is why you think I married you?
Because you showered me with finery?
We did wed because once in a romantic interlude,
we mistakenly thought it could last forever.
Why then did we divorce? Because you knew
how to request it politely.
I'm not one to wrestle rings off fingers.
I may be primitive, but I am decidedly non violent.
We did it our way. You purchased the divorce.
I left you the furniture and lap dog.
So here in Andalusia once more amongst my fellow Gypsies,
I strum the instrument of hips like a woman,
strumming achingly this borrowed guitar,
akin, I like to think, like Miles Davis blows his trumpet,
he in a dive in Harlem; me in a den of thieves and flamenco.
To set the record straight, I'm not Spanish but a Russian Gypsy.
To witness, our tribe has virtually no boundaries.
It's what keeps both woe and cheer but fleeting conditions.
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