Drank at the Casa de la Trova, swam around in Hispaniola the
president
of our corporation, the tortilleria chain. There were refrains
and key
changes and loud riffs and streams of solos, but the
synchronicity
was not exactly what I was looking for. The syncopation,
infusion
of ladles and rhyme, was an unfortunate Canaveral to a
working class rocket.
Thought I wouldn’t last another minuet. The firing was fast,
I do not even remember who did it. Was it you, Simon?
Was it you, Pedro? “Was it I, Lord? Why do you ask? I was
here when you found me, and now you say you love me?”
Along with the music from Cuba (& Europe), Florida’s food
are adored by its patrons. Roman Catholics, new Republicans.
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