When they say Moor, they mean a lad
Of color. Black like pitch or coal,
though multi-colored in his soul.
Polka dots. Paisley. Tartan plaid.
His wife is white. As pale as whey.
She has a hanky bleached with salt.
The dark chap has a Tragic Fault.
(He likes to fight.) (She likes to play
at wifery.) His sword is keen.
His adjutant is keener still.
At peace, there's beaucoup time to kill,
and we all know what that can mean:
the blackamoor is dead as dirt.
The pale-faced squaw is stiff as stone.
The villain rules the room alone
and will not speak and will be hurt,
which he minds not. Oh, what a waste.
The colors of our rainbow run
red everywhere, black as the sun
behind the moon, perversely placed.