Sean Connery, the first and best James Bond, died last month (https://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-54761824), so I thought I would resurrect one of my poems, a tribute to 007.
So long, 007... Click To TweetLet me know what you think.
The Flying Circus of My Personal Pilot,
Miss. Pussy Galore…
They strike at dawn. In tight, black
Jumpsuits and long blond hair, they’ll
Spray Delta Nine Nerve Gas into the sky
Above Fort Knox. And incidentally,
Delta Nine Nerve Gas is fatal. Isn’t
James exceptionally well informed?
They’re Pussy’s girls all right. She’s
Trained them herself. While Miss Galore
Slips into something more suitable, James
Drinks a mint julep. The julep is tart
Enough. Not like those thirty year old
Fines indifferently blended, thank heaven.
It’s an inspired plan, a miracle in
Human endeavor. Aren’t they all?
Good thing Pussy has a maternal instinct.
She is, after all, a woman of many parts.
Not quite so immune to charm either.
Then again, what woman is? Even a woman
With her very own flying circus can fall
Victim. No surprise there. We all know
What happens next. Blairing saxophones
and bellowing trumpets. Gunshots. Fist
Fights. A few judo moves. In the end,
James and Pussy under a priapic parachute.
They say all men want to be James Bond.
Save the world, get the girl, kill the
Bad guy. We’d know every vintage of
Every wine, speak every language from
English to Urdu, and never, I mean never,
Lose at baccarat. That’s what they say.
An entire universe at the tip of a pen,
A world shrunk onto the printed page or
Flattened onto the silver screen.
Let me have that. Let that be my world,
My universe, and I’ll create the rest.
All with an overdose of bon boire.
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