Willie Smith

Rainbow Yellow

Cello-mellow when Rainbow Yellow takes the cake, 
and the recluse unpacks her violin, 
while the widow keeps, on her hourglass, time. 
That night the trio played the Neptune Blues, 
Satan sat in – pitchfork open tuned; 
black satin cowboy shirt, striped pants tight zipped. 
Yellow blew her sax, like a whore in the black, 
prostitute, for once, to toot her own horn, 
alone with her love, 
enough dollies the life to change. 
Yellow’s love – in real life – stripped, 
down at the Reality Club, 
Mister Satan in perpetuity owned. 
Gail crossed over the line one night, 
let a good Christian boy huff her soiled rag; 
boy held near to Second Coming 
unholy tokes of bloody smoke.
And once the Christian glimpsed God, 
he shot poor Gail dead. 
Since God told him do it, 
the good old boy walked, charges dropped. 
Nothing more hazardous than a Baptist 
smoking a bloody clout, 
specially if with God he got clout. 
Yellow blew her heart out 
those Neptune blues. Satan Himself 
held back his customary sneer, 
eyes bright with brimstone tears,  
cleavage of his hooves 
showing through his Jesus shoes.