The Padre, wakeful, dry and auxotrophic,
forgets siesta vows and hits the beach.
Although his leaves in France were catastrophic,
he ambles straight through Alacant to reach
a tapas bar that faces on the beach.
It's winter, but instead of woollen shrouds
the Padre meets small promenading crowds
who celebrate the cheerful sun, and swan
in gossamer that's thinner than the clouds.
Padre thanks the Lord for gracile well-endoweds
but, as he's trained himself, longs more for drink.
"To wish the other's patently absurd.
I'll pose myself a syllogism: think
would Pollux invite Leda for a word
in bars stocked with another kind of bird,
subject his madre mía to the tunes
of señoritas singing in saloons?"
To fuel thought, the Padre orders stout
con narañjas. As the waitress screams,
bartenders yell Valencian for "out."