Bad Romans

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!
Oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh!
They were some bad Romans.

Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah!
Roma-Roma-ma-man!
Ga-ga-ooh-la-la!
Want your bad Romans

Claudius was ugly
Caligula was diseased
Ceasar wanted everything
As long as it’s free
Antony wanted love
Love-love-love
He wanted love

Nero had drama
With his baby mama
Commodus liked to watch men fight in the sand
Gladiator love
Love-love-love
Gladiator love

You know Julius Ceasar
He was dictator for life
They thought he was a bad, bad Roman

Brutus killed Caesar
Octavian wanted revenge
He went and killed some bad Romans
There’s lots love and
And even more revenge
When you talk about the bad Romans

Et-et-et-tu-uuu!
Et-tu-Bruté-ay-ay!
He was a bad Roman!

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!
Oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh!
They were some bad Romans

Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah!
Roma-Roma-ma-mans!
Ga-ga-ooh-la-la!
Very very bad Romans

badromans1

Happy Ides of March! There’s much room for more verses to come…

The between hours

The sun was a gold disc, blurred by salt patterned windows; the horizon a bleary somewhere else. We drive the way of tackle shops, motor stores and cheap motels. The roads lined with general stores and diners that belong to people like Frank and Al and Nana. I listen to a melancholy playlist and that song comes on. The song that fits like a second skin. The song I carry with me always.

We drive until the sun disappears, until the lights of the city appear in its place. After five stale hours, the children two seats ahead get antsy. We adults wish that we, too, could whine are we there yet? We’ve places to be, but mostly we’re tired of between.

Twenty six hours in another city. The heaviest hours I’ve felt in a long time, passing both slowly and too fast: burdened by the weight of sadness and carried by love. I pass on the songs that carried me here and hope they will offer some strength.

My memories are full of Greyhound buses. Of looking at my face in window reflections on buses, trains and planes. Tired eyes and bedraggled hair look better in the forgiving dark glass. I watch one city disappear and another appear in the fog before dawn, and I think of a quote I heard years ago:

Coming home from very lonely places, all of us go a little mad: whether from great personal success, or just an all-night drive, we are the sole survivors of a world no one else has ever seen.
- John le Carre