THE DON COMES AFTER THE KNIGHT. AND JUANITA? SHE STAYS IN BED.
It was June. The wounded moon perfumed her room like an open pomegranate.
The wounding moon filled night’s gloom with silver light as pale, as soft, as the spoons in her cabinet.
Under the moon the music bloomed, cicadas crooned, and crickets danced like castanets in her courtyard.
And moonlight shone on silver spurs, on silver saddle, as el moro’s mare rode in hard.
Oh yes! He was bold. And yes! He was glorious! – Oh, famous he was, like a pharaoh.
His name was in stone, so widely was he known, a romantic caballero.
And his fingers could dance on his strings as quick as the wings (as sharp as the sting) of mosquitoes.
And Juanita was pale and Juanita was soft, the mirror of her prayers in cathedral.
But Juanita was a dare, Juanita a taunt, a jeer at the very name of our jihadic hero.
So he rode in hard, he rode in proud. He dismounted his mare. Oh, and he then mounted another.
And when he had left, her passion was spent. Also quite spent was her silver.
When her brother, the Don, learned what had gone on, his anger was hot jalapeno.
With the sun on his gun, he came on the run upon his honey palomino,
vowing the end of young uppity men—revenge is what he was after.
And on he rode, shining in gold, in pursuit of the bold silver spurs, silver saddle.
[to be sung to "Malagueña"]