In the sepia days the pants traveled
Far and flung in bell shaped bottoms
And the sides burned on hairy faces.
The star’s hands swept an air or two
And at his every bizarre astral gesture
Women would swoon in high drama
Eyes fluttering like fresh butterflies.

The pants went yellow and jacket red
In a tinsel romance to dark-lined eyes
That drooped in pretended modesty.
Movies flowed sweetly into weddings
That had no foretaste of black gowns.
A motor cycle sputtered with a train
Singing of the brevity of a life in sepia.


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