I’ll not forget the charming maid
Who asked if I had been flambéed
And, seeing I knew little French,
Proceeded without pause to drench
My clothes with liquids dark and strong,
And purred I wouldn’t feel it long,
Then closed the door and dropped the latch
And asked me if I had a match.
What fun, I thought, she wants a candle,
Some atmosphere, perhaps some Handel,
And had my clothing so imbued
To set an odd, but sexy, mood.
But I was young and just delighted
For any spark to be ignited,
And life was made for love, for learning
French and femmes fatales, and burning.
From my friend Jay Curlin
