Bert Jerred

I see the red flag waving.
You draw me out just like Picasso;
so, I must look stranger -
now that you're looking past
the roses in your mouth.
I hear it now:
these crowds that move in mass-bolero.
But you're my matador –
Oh, won't you take those arrows out?
I wish I knew the words
to your flamenco serenade.