Why I don’t live at the beach now
(Apologies to Emma Lazarus)
Not like the bronzed beauties of tour brochures,
With well-knits limbs emerging from the sea to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates are planned
A host of bars, sea-food joints and tourist stands.
In the twilight, the sun-burnt tourists waddle ashore
to eat and drink, eat and drink… and drink some more
We bid them welcome; our mild servers withstand
The raucous gringo accents, as the beer they pour.
“Keep your loud ways, your foreign tongue!” we sneer
With silent lips. “Give me retirees, snow-birds
With humongous asses, yearning for cheap beer,
Wretches who refuse to use our words.
Send these, the clueless toss-pots to me,
We pad the tab: “For you, gringo, almost free!”