The Impresario Part Seven

partseven

 

He lifts the doll-woman onto the wagon’s bed

At once her small feet prance a pirouette

The hunchback has been beaten in the town

He must ask his good servant to mark a likeness down

One whose fortune Pierre the Seer will uncloak

She stands clear for the Wax-man, Regalus

He waddles, stately, pale as death, to sit upon his pallet

While the impresario, touching fingers

To her shoulder, ties the tent fly, murmurs

“Dress yourself, the time is nigh”

Tortu sinks and sits cross-legged

With osier basket, lute and reed

She flutters, drawn this way and that

And the impresario cocks his hat

 

“Humble yourselves before the Lord

Yea, denizens of the North, behold

Creation’s variety manifold

For today we dwell on earth as told

Tomorrow cast into the flames

Spare a coin

And the least most high, and the last be first

Spare a coin

Come, varlet and master

Inquisitor and doubter

The shepherd and the butcher

Come, sergeant and informer

Spare a coin

 

Now hark! Madame Poupée

Eye, mes amis, if you please

Her silver rings; like a lark she sings

And the prize is yours

Can you guess where it lies—

A riddle. Shall I shine for you

A candle? I make light of a heavy weight,

friends, and give to you Mont-Blanc…eh?

Voila! The genius of the place

The magnificent Man of Wax!”

 

His hand describes an alpine view

In the shape of a letter M

He glances, having counted beats

A roar like Stentor’s rends the air

The townsfolk aaah and then applaud

The impresario coughs

***

Copyright 2017 Stephanie Foster

 

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