They coo Alcobendas is a low-born lot.
Madrid perks us with an essential rendering.
Tutus and attitude starkly set.
Synth-blip promos, having a caper.
Then the art house pixie pops up topless,
slides on L'Oreal's Telescopic mascara,
gearshifts her savvy in imperative cameos.
The marring of air-walking
by the director's muse
is all it takes
to pinpoint the inimitable.
to the never-ending woe begone posture.
When you're Cheshire catting
as Anna Madrigal surmise,
or wrinkly Mama Sinatra
we're undespairing. Tonight at 7
you'll head up a turnout,
a Frisco State faculty
with grounded feet,
a go-between for the fitness
of a slew of scenes. In or out of The Greek Chorus,
unexpected, fine-drawn player.
Broadcast the pallor
in vivacity exceeding 70,
shed light on excerpts, Shakespeare in the Park,
briefed on silver-tongued transfiguring,
A reverse twit shoves off Czechoslovakia,
followed-through to the Self-On-The-Block superpower—
you grab shots
at chewing in-the-wrong fat, pronto
with an overhead smash.
Sporting 'Under Armour'
you slice service by dint of ball boys,
a forehand drive and rallies on Washington.
Constellated in the midst of Billie Jean, then Dusty
— just as fleeting in a skirt.