A Night of Lists

A tattered boa 'round a prostitute,
A record broken at a carousel.
The evening falls the way he has for her,
Has he a hope or half a chance I sing.

Modigliani hangs upon the walls,
For premier exhibition V.I.P.'s
While sipping champagne viewing gallery,
And nibbling bits of pâté on a stick.

Collecting all the drinks they left behind,
I watch a waiter pour them in a bowl,
To add sangria, ice and grenadine
And serve in Dixie Cups to us who wait.

I pass on mixing as I brows hors d'oeuvre
I pick up each to slowly give a sniff.
The hostess joins me with a parasol,
Her make-up runs & drips into the punch.

The party's getting old, it starts to rain,
My fishnet stockings start the salmon run.
I invite everyone back to my place,
We do a conga line right up the steps.