Dialogue En Route

‘If only something would happen!’

sighed Eve, the elevator-girl ace,

to Adam the arrogant matador

as they shot past the forty-ninth floor

in a rocketing vertical clockcase,

fast as a fallible falcon.

‘I wish millionaire uncles and aunts

would umbrella like liberal toadstools

in a shower of Chanel, Dior gowns,

filet mignon and walloping wines,

a pack of philanthropical fools

to indulge my extravagant wants.’

Erect in his folderol cloak

sham Adam the matador cried:

‘O may G-men all die of the choler,

and my every chimerical dollar

breed innumerable bills, bona fide:

a hot hyperbolical joke!’

Said Eve: ‘I wish venomous nematodes

were bewitched to assiduous lovers,

each one an inveterate gallant

with Valentino's crack technical talent

for recreation down under the covers:

erotic and elegant episodes.’

Added Adam, that simian swell,

with his modish opposable thumb:

‘O for ubiquitous free aphrodisiacs,

and for pumpkins to purr into Cadillacs

and voluptuous Venus to come

waltzing up to me out of her cockle-shell.’

Breaking through gravity's garrison,

Eve, the elevator-girl ace,

and Adam the arrogant matador

shot past the ninety-fourth floor

to corral the conundrum of space

at its cryptic celestial origin.

They both watched the barometer sink

as the world swiveled round in its orbit

and thousands were born and dropped dead,

when, from the inane overhead

(too quick for the pair to absorb it),

came a gargantuan galactic wink.