Behind the elegant tipped palisade,
The plaza's hot enamel plate slopes low.
For admiration the seraglio
Bends over the alabaster balustrade
Convinced that many a tender detail lies
Unveiled in tulle dusk where the heavens fade.
Over the handheld fan, a flicker of eyes
As red lips slurp away at lemonade.
The general commands a cannonade
Of welcome. No shots fire. Still as d**h's shade.
A hero is not proven in bravado
Of restless din, but in the bastinado
Of negro slaves, the whip on the black body
Under the cheer of 'Viva Liberdade'