I'm of London, of Moscow in my glasses.

Every now and then,
when I am feeling truly ambiguous,
I will throw on my Woody Allen glasses

and call it a disguise.

"A disguise, ya say?"

"Indeed, I called it."
After all, it was my trick.

"Nay, I'd already done'd it."
Total lack of interest from my audience,
she cuts me off with a bored, hazy glare.
Glasses help, but they don't save a life, you see.

On with the banter, the canter, the pseudo-troughs of laughter. 
Rhyming is for pansywillows, I say.

I did say.

I say a lot. I say a lot, but without the glasses,
what does it matter? 
No one listens to Marian,
but everyone listens to Woody Allen.

Woody Allen of Brooklyn as opposed to Leonardo da Vinci.

No one says the "of Brooklyn" humor,
so why is there the da Vinci code?
Call him Leonardo, call me

                Mary Ann
                    with my glasses.

Call me Mary Ann while I say things boldly in my glasses of black plastic and greasy lenses.
Without them, I'm a one-syllabled Marian.

Mary Ann of London, or Anchorage, or Moscow!
I crave red like I crave a prescription lens. 

"D'ya wear contacts?"

"I have glasses, what need would I have for them?"
in my ambiguity, I am a disguise.

"But you ush'lly wear 'em?"

A red, plaid scarf would truly orchestrate my point,
so I pull one out of my Mary Poppins bag.
The bag lady.
Such strange associations tell me she's beautiful, not the dove lady.
                                    Not the bag lady.
Never the bagger lady at the end of the check out line,
eyeing up my Mary Poppins scarf
                    and Woody Allen glasses
while smacking her over-glossed lips with bubble gum.
I tip her because she wants it,
because she annoyed me,
because she fed off of pretension and conformity.

I wish I were a sex fiend;
if only I had an orgasm machine.
Woody knows. He knows all too well.
Who would feed from the trough
when I possess
          such a contraption?
Probably still all.
              Still,
an orgasm machine would please me,
with or without my disguise.
In fact,
I'd be an orgasm addict.

It's my disguise, I say.

I do say,
        without lies.

I called it, in fact.

I called it all, in fact. 

Machine or no machine,
my scarf will supplement my alter ego,
and you will understand, without a doubt,
why I am never an

of London
        or
of Moscow
        or
Mary Ann.

Call me Marian, and call me often.

I say, call me by name, and often.