My Mother Was A Chinese Trapeze Artist

My mother was a Chinese trapeze artist

In pre-war Paris

Smuggling bombs for the underground.

And she met my father

At a fete in Aix-en-Provence.

He was disguised as a Russian cadet

in the employ of the Axis.

And there in the half-light

Of the provincial midnight

To a lone concertina

They drank in cantinas

And toasted to Edith Piaf

And the fall of the Reich.

My sister was born in a hovel in Burgundy

And left for the cattle

But later was found by a communist

Who'd deserted his ranks

To follow his dream

To start up a punk rock band in South Carolina.

I get letters sometimes.

They bought a plantation

She weeds the tobacco

He offends the nation

And they write, "Don't be a stranger, y'hear?

Sincerely, your sister."

So my parents had me

To the disgust of the prostitutes

On a bed in a brothel.

Surprisingly raised with tender care

'Til the money got tight

And they bet me away

To a blind brigadier in a game

Of high stakes canasta.

But he made me a sailor

On his brigadier ship fleet.

I know every yardarm

From main mast to jib sheet.

But sometimes I long to be landlocked

And to work in a bakery.