The Cologne Wars
a New York City epic, in three acts
Act One: Vinnie and Tommy
Two bachelors, alike in vanity,
On fair Staten Island made their homes;
Their self-love border’d on insanity,
Never without cologne nor pocket combs.
Vinnie, the elder, he of olive skin
And a strut to make the Bee Gees proud,
Oft sporting a broad Travoltalike grin
“You talkin’ to me?” he’d inquire aloud.
Musky was his weekday fragrance of choice,
On weekends his palette more floral;
His scent would precede the sound of his voice
When on the prowl for love, or for oral.
Tommy, the other, pale in complexion,
He of Emerald Isle extraction.
Woody was Tommy’s fragrance of preference,
Exuded he hints of pine, sandal
To cover his late-stage adolescence —
When on the town, chasing sex and scandal.
The Island was their infinite playground,
Mariners Harbor to Eltingville,
Across the mighty Goethals, Jersey-bound,
Latourette Park and up to Lighthouse Hill.
They grew up like brothers, Vincent and Tom,
Tom idolized Vin’s policeman dad,
Vin had a crush on Tom’s school teacher mom.
None could have foretold their ending so sad.
God knows, they would still be easy-livin’
Were it not for hormones — and for women.
Act Two: Enter Stacy
‘Twas a summer eve, when Stacy arrived,
Manhattan transplant, Stuyvesant grad,
“This place is a dump!” she quickly derived,
With more class than those two clowns ever had.
“No museum, nor a Koreatown?
A freakin' ferry to get to work?”
Stacy sized up her sitch. “What a letdown!”
“All 'cause dad wanted a backyard. That jerk.”
“There’s nothing good to eat. The sushi sucks.
Dyin’ over here. For a decent
manicure, I’d give, like, a hundred bucks!
Worse— I haven’t been laid, as of recent!”
It was but a matter of time until
This escapade slid all the way downhill.
Vin was hanging out Tom’s passenger side
cruising along Hylan Boulevard,
When they saw Stacy bend over mid-stride
To pick up her platinum credit card.
“Mamma mia, what an ass!” Vinnie yelled.
Stacy rolled her eyes and said “Oh dear.”
She stood up, her middle finger upheld.
“Is this what passes for real men, 'round here?”
As Tommy’s car rolled up to a stop sign,
Stacy’s eyes lit up, bright as the sun;
She schemed, I’m gonna make this town all mine!
Carpe diem, girl, time to have some fun ..
I know how to make these townies' heads spin …
“Bowling lanes, Friday — may the best man win!”
Act Three: Slander and Strife
The two local yokels could not believe
The good luck that had befallen them;
This divine angel would surely alleve
Their dry spell, their hardy frustrations stem.
They laid the unguent on thick that night,
That aromatic, ambrosial eau,
Certain that by next morning’s early light
One, or both, would be the new girl’s new beau.
As macho instinct overtook the pair,
The bonds of their brotherhood started
To weaken and dissolve into thin air,
Their kinship entered waters uncharted,
Until they looked into each other’s eyes
And saw what in themselves they most despised.
Stacy, meanwhile, was nowhere to be seen,
She of course had not the intention
To be Vinnie’s or Tommy’s hometown queen,
Looking elsewhere for worthy attention.
She had outgrown that outer borough scene
Soon as she set one foot in that dump,
And trained her crosshairs on pastures more green
With richer bounty to flirt with, and hump.
“I’m outta here!” she proclaimed, and forthwith,
To prove that she wasn’t just bluffin',
Fled to Brooklyn, and promptly hooked up with
Sergey, a Ukrainian studmuffin.
Thus did this tale of the boroughs conclude,
One dude got lucky, two others got screwed.
The End
and now, the long-awaited sequel:
