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Zorro Ranch, Little St. James, 9 East 71st Street, and, aboard the Lolita Express,

Shimmering Rainbows,

Of success!

Now the hour dims, as Jerusalem, a solemn site, waiting for the blink of night, the eye enshrouded by a mist,

A little girl, a long tall Sally, she so pretty, an ad would give her beaucoup bucks, Shucks Sally!

Zorro wasn’t a saint but he sure was cool. He, swashbuckling the highlands, landed down in the swish of a slight remiss, his mask intact,

Zorro prays to St. James, Jesus’s brother, that a Spanish ship, ornate and baroque, not be opaque when Zorro swoops in for the woman who will be his broker,

His Booker, His Brooks, his spurs dance in the dark, he shifts, silver sword barks, and embarks.