DIMINUENDO

If those three men calléd wise did journey and see

that it would be fitting to give also to me,

I would but two requests make: un accento español para mi

and to wield in my head a Spanish dictionary.

 

I have been brought low; the pride I held fled.

In all other studies it was commonly said

that I would excel; this went straight to my head.

Now frankly I’d rather just lie here instead.

 

Fate has decided to cast onto me

a tri-weekly dosage of humility.

What appeared to my Spanish class turned out to be

la clase del infierno - it’s all Greek to me.

 

“No lo sé” is my catchphrase, my weapon of choice.

When he asks that I speak, “No lo sé,” I will voice.

Please understand, I mean him no vice.

I do him a favor by not speaking twice.

 

La lengua español es perfecto - the Spanish alluring.

But my attempts are atrocious; there is no chance for curing

a poor, sickly student who’s all too far gone.

At my wake I must have (bien sabido) ENGLISH songs.

 

“¡Canciones!” - “Lo siento, Profesor, quizás después

I’ll try to speak Spanish, uno, dos, quatro, tres.”

“¡Silencio, idiota- hablarás sólo en inglés!”

“Graw-see-ahs, señor,” I say, turning red in the face.