“Here he is!” said the announcer in
front of a hushed audience,
and the band ready to play,
“the newest star from MGM, Ricky Ricardo!”
And the audience clapped as he appeared
from behind the curtain with oiled black hair
and a bongo drum slung over his shoulders,
the mating ritual began.
Ricky sang with perspiration and teeth filled grins,
oh, how he made Lucy scream
and women cream
for another Latin lover in the 1950s.
But somehow through it all
poor Ricky eventually got gypped,
who would have ever thought that
the stars of MGM would drop from the sky?
1958, that unofficial year, when:
smoking was glamorous,
churches, where no one talked,
broad shoulder suits,
flowered wallpaper,
Cuban casinos for a winter vacation,
and being a soldier seemed so right.
In times of my own worldly wretchedness,
I wish that I knew that time,
but common sense returns when I think of Ricky,
and on how
Lucy and MGM left him behind.
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