i was never born a gypsy
but damn i wish i was
if i have to provide a "because"
there's drinking and dancing to be done

in the orange heat of the yellow sun
the stories of survival rise with the smoke
i listen to the rhythm of nylon-stringed gypsy folk
and close my eyes over the city of metal and oil

i never had to turn over soil
not even as a lemming of a powerful ox
just read a couple of stories about a hen-house fox
and so believe myself to be well-versed in outdoor living

while in reality, i struggle breathing
when the temperature outside deviates from a dry seventy three
and don't feel all that comfortable having to pee
when someone is sweating and breathing heavy in a urinal adjacent to mine

so i know i'm only lying
when i leave django reinhardt on repeat
and shyly shuffle my heavy feet
to the playful sweetness of his pluckings