The two genteel old men sit
At the end of the table trading
Bittersweet stories and tall opinions.
The talk quickly turns to revolution
As the bare-shouldered blonde
Dances, turns, and swirls along
The front edge of the stage
To the sick samba groove.
Sweet innocence, dressed in red,
Watches as her mother spins;
The weight of knowing is too much,
Innocence lost on a casting couch
With cartoons and cookies.
Disturbed, disturbing, circling
Flames reflect off-colored strings
As the room begins to collapse
Into itself, and children run full
Speed in circles through the aisles.
Dance, eat, and be merry.
“For tonight, we celebrate our freedom,
In the morning, we fight!
Viva la revolution!”
And still the night is young
And so are our souls.
“Viva the fucking revolution!”
Let us dance.