Freddy Mercury Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The work is really about the work, they sing:
The young punks with Mohawks and hair-lips.
Tree frogs jeweled in heliotrope, they sing. The
Epitaphs they give these graveyards in mass, our song,
Sylvia who by good scars comes, and enters Anne,
What ridiculous, what five-pointed song of light:
I call her Maggie Pie Crust by my five-fingered star-fist:
And now, boys, smoke and light and cigarettes, and tits!
Now we have a band, and we play for the werewolf,
Staunched and emboldened, we howl in the shopping malls:
Our base invades tennis courts; We are all the monsters.
Girls in short skirts take cover, daddies run to their mothers.
We are overspilling into the lap of luxury, our dyes ink their
Pools: We swim like submarines, we drool like five-year
Olds at play. We jettison. Subtracting such joy that the Cadillac brings,
Girls, girls, we awaken the chickens from the hypnosis of
Chalk, and enlighten like spry willow sprigs jaunting along
The riverbanks of witchcraft:
We jump up, jump up, jump up: Up until mommy and daddy are
Home and idling out-front in their car,
Up, until the newscast is over and the make-up unmasked, and
Indeed the rain-clouds in for unprompted mass:
And, I love you, and her, and her too: Now strum,
Since this is the beginning of the new weekend sum: Up, until
The bell rings for school, and make eyes down the hallway as we
Are all hurrying in; for the band is calling us from the courtyard
Bricked in red; they have fireworks and fingers which fall on the
Strings like water-spiders in autumn; and this is the end of the school-
Year, and the beginning of our lives; and no one will remember us
Here. Our classmates will forget us all. Now sing, strange-girls sing,
And light the fireworks, Sylvia; and play the drums, Anne,
And the other girl, the one I can’t remember, take a hold of this
Hand: Jump up until the light strikes us dead, and then lay low
With me, but still sing, and sing; and now come to bed.