The first thing she asked for was a mic,
Then a stool.
Already glammed in her sequins and forever black gloves,
She was ready to send the heavenly choir into retirement.
No more of these cherubim and seraphim twittering.
None of these cherry-cheeked, curly-haired, blond bimbos,
Angels with perfect pitch.
“We need some action, Pete, give me a vamp
And we’re on our way.”
“Sure Julie, give us some grit, some mighty rust from those pipes,
Sounds only you can make. And repertoire, your choice, just
Make it real.”
The winged altos, mezzos, and high sopranos flew for cover.
No match for Julie. They knew.
They had prepared. Just a matter of time till she showed up, her slinky self
Tossing down-to-earth truths
Into the celestial doldrums.
Pete was ready, so was the Big Bang, His Boy,
And that Bird. The Trio burst out,
“No time to waste. Hit it Julie.”
“Okay Boys, fine by me, let’s do it.
I’m here and sure do belong.”
Feathers flew, lightening struck, planets whirled,
The clouds opened and there she was.
“Ladies and gentlemen,
The ever heavenly,
Miss Julie Wilson.”