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09-04-02, for Katie McN
A Little Song
From behind the heavy, red-velvet curtain, she saunters onto the stage.
Saunters? Hmmm, maybe that's a mosey rather than a saunter. Whatever. Her spurs jingle jangle, sparkling against the brilliant white of her faux leather cowgirl boots (yes, faux leather. It's a one-time outfit, folks, and the Birthday Nymph is on a budget, but notice please the lovely pink sequins that have been affixed around the ankles). Although it's obvious that her gossamer wings are folded and perhaps crushed under the fitted leather jacket, one can see that she's enjoying the swirl of the white leather fringe around her knees and wrists as she slowly takes her place on the lone stool set in the center of the Taverna's stage.
She tucks the pointed toe of her boot behind the cross bar of the stool and leans back to pull out a highly polished guitar. She adjusts the microphone, takes a glittering pick out of her breast pocket, and leans forward to speak to the gathered crowd.
She peers into the darkness, stage-blinded by the spotlight (when did the Taverna get a spotlight?). “If you're out there, Birthday Girl, listen up.”
<ahem> (there's that delicate clearing of her throat again)
“A Song, by Birthday Nymph. With thanks and apologies to Marty Robbins.”
She begins, her fingers picking out a smooth, easy-going rhythm on the steel strings.
Down in the South Texas town of Del Rio
There was a writer named Katie McN.
Night time would find her in front of her keyboard,
Pounding the words out to please all her fans.
Blonde as the sun was the hair of our Katie
Dirty and wicked her thoughts they did run.
Some women craved her; some men tried to change her
'Cause she was the writer who made them all come.
Writing her fiction about sexy women,
Romance or blackmail, she'd do either proud.
Now on this 5th of the month of September,
We'll all raise our glasses and say, very loud,
Ka-tie it's your birthday,
We all want to cheer you,
So have a drink,
'Cause the bill has been paid.
