by Louis Bertrand Shalako
c2010
All Rights Reserved
The trouble with Tycho
Is that it’s very dry
The moon is a harsh mistress
Unless you know how to handle her
A city of darkness
A city of glass
A city of bones, a city of masks
Bones of crystal, masks of glass
But at least I am willing
To put my face where my mouth is
And for some reason, in some way
Somehow,
I am still morphing into a Frenchman
It’s not so bad being a Frenchman
But I would sure as hell like to know why.