The ugly American

We attended an early matinee
At the theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon,
And we sat on the third row of the theater
Enjoying the actors' deliveries
Of Will's sweet pearls,
But we noticed a woman
Sitting on the edge of the stage,
Standing room only,
Taking her shoes off,
Rubbing her feet
For all of us to see.

Later, I took time at the intermission
And strolled into the bar
With my best James Bond swagger
And ordered a Scotch, on the rocks.

The bartender gestured toward the bucket
Where the last cube passed its slow death;
I could not recover my cool, any more than the ice cube.