This one's for you, Django,

The way you played that guitar,

Fingers fancy-prancing

Fleetly up and down the fretboard,

Even after you had disappeared

For days on end,

Bolting madly-eyed off to your gypsy woman,

— Or so some said, nobody really knew —

Playing as nimbley-fast and agile

When you came back

As if there weren't a second's gap

Between the time you left/returned.

God, the way her black eyes sparkled

In the nighttime firelight when she danced,

The way her bare feet stamped and leaped in dust,

The way she spun like a whirlwind

And fanned her billowing skirts

Above her knees and thighs

And smiled at you,

Scarlet lips alluring, teeth flashing,

Cheeks hot and rose-red flushed. . .

Then you reappeared with new laughter

In your dancing fingers,

New joys in your reckless heart,

New well-spring memories tossing fresh flames

Into that willy-wild six-string guitar of yours.

How did you do it, Django?

How did you burn so bright

And hardly ever practice?

Your gypsy blood?

That raven-haired beauty?

The way her

Orange campfire flames' capricious fingers

Bathed intoxicated stars in fire?

Here's to you, Django.

Every time you play those

Dash-daring incandescent melodies

I see the way she smiled and spun for you,

The way her spangled beads and

Jingling silver bracelets glittered

In the campfire light,

The way her swirling skirts flared

Out across the reeling gypsy moon

And thrilled you.