Sarette's Reve De Mort: And Other Stories Of Not Quite Magical Realism

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An executioner once knew a man,

Whose blade was sharp and true.

He lost to duel one hand too,

Overjoying the enrages firebrand,

Who come from New Laconia.

The land was Left of Paris,

But just right of Spain.

Just above another land.

Where the Firebrand lost his hand.

We came from New Laconia,

New Laconia was the land of Gypsies,

It belonged to neither Spain or France.

A land of ladies exposing underpants,

Whom also belonged to neither Spain or France.

He we have the executioner's hand,

Pickled in a glass jar, for a land so near,

And yet so far, the land called New Laconia.

Separate from France or Spain.

Our land of Gypsies.

Or family, our clan.

Our upbringing, our way of life.

Lets give thanks to Enrages.

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