Cristobal Balenciaga lighting a cigarette and plucking a giant tote from the tote tree
You remind me of the shipwrights and carpenters in Barcelona
They used to say: birches ain’t ship, but warp and trick.
Women to make me cut away my eyelids in case a blink disappears them
You cruel ladies disturbed our sawing and our adzing and our hacking, but
Cristobal Balenciaga lights a cigarette and plucks a giant tote from the tote tree
I have teeth, hair, skin, limb, features, and complexion
But the proportions in Barcelona calibrate by higher codes
They used to say: birches ain’t ship, but warp and trick
Paupers are my buddies. Ash and sackcloth are my hankies
I have a flagellation timetable. The inquisition does my house-sitting
Cristobal Balenciaga smokes a cigarette and considers the tote from the tote tree
He wants to know we did right. How we measure in the black
Ultramarine is the bay, I check my spleen level, she’s in that red
We used to say: birches ain’t ship, but warp and trick
Rage, rage, Cris B. because we screwed up the giant lambskin tote
Broke all the ships in the bay and didn’t get anywhere near betrothed
To the bay hotties even when we used your parfums.
Cristobal Balenciaga lights a cigarette, pops a round in the chamber and plucks the tote
He used to say, birches ain’t ship, but I like a good banger, Ima cap you, the rest is rote.