Having overcome a phone-line down and various weather and computer misfortunes, I'm back at the writing desk, makinga nearly final revision to the first draft of this one:
Where Desperados are drunk
The customers are sober;
Where a stack of logs is untouched by fire
The crimson candles flicker.
Above hatless waitresses in red and black
Sombreros stay nailed to the walls
Where loud piped music sounds
Guitars remain unstrummed
A final two lines:
Outside is cold wet November
Inside is dry warm Mexico.
Perhaps, moist warm Mexico? And then a title.