I once had a margarita
between cigarettes; it was 1974.
The same year, I fell for a brunette,
two yards tall with a Gorbachev mole.
She fell for a shit-eating grin in a suit
and a penthouse office with
rubber plants.
I drink wine now, with a pipe;
They’re both dead now, you see,
and nobody misses 1974
except me.