By Allan Roy Andrews
He galloped to an era unmasking
foibles in electronic heroes and
tarnishing spangles with slick songs.
His tacky mask, a harlequin’s ploy,
coyly hid his love-need; he misplaced
his loins on a pale Arabian stallion.
His magnanimity with silver bullets,
squandering precious metal,
sullied his ride into radio’s West.
Beside him, Tonto: A little lower than
the Ranger; a sidekick, a faithful companion,
a bit of a bloodhound, but not a brother.
I query my mirror of age: “Who is he,
this masked stranger?” It ciphers my years
and replies: “He died in this decade.”
A finale. Rossini’s “Overture”
succumbs to synthesizers, and I must
conquer desperadoes without him.
*This is a slightly revised version of a poem I posted online at
The American Reporter [http://www.american-reporter.com]
in a column I wrote dated Dec. 30, 1999.