Some Like It Hot

Some Like It Hot

The lanes are coppered in the moonlit tinge,
London’s street lamps humming soft and low.
Two hearts in brass and dream, a strange arrange –
They turn a sax‑solo into a waltz of woe.

Jack, with that cheeky grin that never fades,
And Tony, with a voice that warms the night.
They slip their sleeves off on the war‑bleached glades,
And patch the silence with a rum‑stooped delight.

"Spotty!" they would snitch about their snappy tune,
Radio hiss and a smoke‑filled air conditioner,
The crowd roars for an anthem cast like a rune,
While backstage, ladies prance with silver flannel.

The power of the counter’s beat, the finest crack,
And the chorus line of very clever moustache.
In a theatre, every cue seems suited to that
Bright, crackling night; a little scoffer's match.

Some like it hot in piano keys, some like it sweet,
When your boots bob, and your gloves catch a glint.
In every cigarette, the taste of Brite,
When the clock runs out and you must care for an amic.

We see the flicker of joyous, plain divert,
Faded signs, the clatter, music on the list.
The matinee serenade to treat the heart which you heard,
Some are at this frame:
And that night, keep the rhyme under the roof.

The (English) tongue always suggests that still,
When the curtain falls, we blush, we cheer –
Some Like It Hot has a novelty thrill,
A known sound beyond time; a Parisian sphere.