An anglophone goes wandering -
The street lights each a thought he gives,
And enters a bar on a row,
Half tossed on friendliness and drinks.
The f-bomb, it's Hull, Quebec, dance!
My feet aren't coordinated,
So music shows so in my eyes.
I find a corner, merci much.
A belly button, desire such,
Is searched for amongst the many.
How close the white wine if spilled, thus,
When searching, searching for the French.
Drunk English idiot, moron,
I hear. Not speaking the language,
I chalk it up to the drinks had,
And that's when the lucky thing came.
She sang on a stage, cover stuff,
And boy her voice was angelic.
She read the words from a prompter,
While a small band played around her.
So many people laughed at me,
Because she pointed at me, smiled.
I do not care, haven't ever.
I walked front center stage to her.
I can play the bass for you, girl.
Inside a realm of alcohol
Where I cannot walk, even stand,
I still play perfect lines of notes.
I do not lie. She understood
Somehow, and up I jumped, then waved.
A person handed me a bass,
And silence waited on the queue.
Shock this, the music came to us
Irregularly perfect, played.
The bass and drums in oneness knelt,
As she went back to the mike, screamed.
I shot John A. MacDonald, felt
It on you tube over again,
No judges separate from us,
Something about I do not know.
One hour and a half later I
Was still in amazement, drinks gone,
Quebec Qua this, Quebec Qua that.
They loved us. They really loved us.
That girl, for all my life, her voice -
An equal I could never have,
To all I ever cared for; Once,
At least, if ever in passing.