Noche Cinco

T’was late Noche Cinco

In a lonely cantina,

Where a world-weary stranger

Sits, sipping tequila.

He’s perched at the bar,

With shirt tails untucked

Over surfer board shorts

And sandals with socks.

To his left, to his right

There’s nary a soul.

Couple of stragglers, a loner,

Some last call night owls.

He glug-guzzles his shot,

While eyeballing the door,

Wags glass at the ’keep

To order one more.

The barman tips an anejo,

Wedges lime on a plate.

“Couldn’t help notice,

but your friends, they are late.”

Our stranger nods as he smiles,

“Yeah, they tend to be.

“But just wait,” he adds, chuckling,

“Just wait and you’ll see.”

From out on the street

There sounds quite the din,

And as if on cue

THEY come ping ponging in.

Eight little midgets

In wild lucha masks

Who bounce off the walls

Like crazed acrobats.

There’s Sancho and Panza,

Ese, Tecate,

Pepe and Chuey,

Jesus and Agave.

They bum rush the barman,

Swing from the lamps,

Sword fight with pool cues

And knock over plants

“Your people are creeps!”

Whines the bartender,

“Lighten up, mi amigo,

And fire up that blender!”

The stranger hoists high his highball

As he climbs onto the bar.

“The name’s Papa Boracho,

And I most certainly are!!”

“A round all around!

We’re goin’ down in our cups!

Toast Cinco de Mayo!

Salud!  Bottoms up!”

Egged on by midgets,

Free drinks, and Boracho,

The crowd moves ‘all in’

And tilts at full throttle!

Word hits the street,

‘There’s a rave going on!’

And the tiny crowd soon

Morphs into a mob.

They tear the joint up,

The place is in pieces.

The barkeep is livid,

Boracho, in stitches.

He whips out some bills

To cover his tab.

He calls out to the street,

“Chollo, round up the band!”

Pack leader Chollo

Strolls out of the night,

Garbed all in red,

His mask burning bright.

C bows before P

And says with a flair,

“Senor, here’s your keys,

Your car, eet’s out there.”

Lamplit by streetlights,

All decked out in chrome,

Sits a boss El Camino

With flames on door.

From the mirror, fuzzy dice

Are balanced with care,

Knowing Papa Boracho

Soon will be there.

Chollo slings him the keys

Then rallies the midgets

‘Let’s roll, luchadoritos!

We got places to visit.”

Thus, eight tiny demons

Egress the bar.

Break a couple more things

On their way to the car.

Boracho looks back

At the destruction they’ve wrought

‘My work here is done.’

And he smiles at the thought.

His carriage awaits,

Chollo rides shotgun

In the bed of the sled.

The midgets are tied down.

Papa rev-roars the engine

Of that sweet El Camino,

Last calls to the crowd:

“Noche Cinco por todos, y por todos, bien sueno!”