Tour Bus Blues

The penis is inflatable. Life sucks

at balanced acts (or else some madman steers).
Few errant jumps can trump a Super Lux.
Thus fate rolled over Jack, all of three years.

Sir Mick, on tour from pacing eight chateaus
and dodging dens of mistresses stepped down
from luxury to note the boys repose
whole worlds apart. Absorption coaxed a frown:
"It's Altamont again. The tour is ruined."

"You call that sympathy?" The dick oozed real
Sinatra attitude without the croon.
Detective to the angel and the wheel
mad fortune's gyrehe scratched into his pad:
"Wrong night. Poor kid. One lucky limey-cad."

A version of this poem appears in Serpentrope by Norman Ball