Though the customers are sober
Where Desperados are drunk
And crimson candles light the tables
Next to a stack of logs - unlit;
Though sombreros stay nailed to the walls
Above the hatless waitresses in red and black,
And though guitars remain unstrummed
And loud piped music sounds,
The enchiladas are good and hot.
Outside is cold wet November;
Inside is dry warm Mexico.
All the diners here were sober till
The Desperado beers were drunk. While on
The oval tables crimson candles shone
Illuminating a log pile on the sill,
Never to be burnt, at least not here.
Above the waitresses, hatless, unveiled,
Are black sombreros securely nailed
To walls: were never near a bandolier.
Guitars glued up above remain unstrummed
And music from loudspeakers dominates
Our thoughts and conversation. On our plates
Enchiladas sizzle. Taste buds hum.
In here is hot Mexico: we can forget
The cold November night, austere and wet.