by J.P. Celia

“Zorro reboot series in the works”
—Variety

Inside his hacienda,
The grizzled hero sits,
His heart’s impedimenta
Depressing him in fits.

The California weather
Creates a promised land,
Though pouting in his leather
He senses only sand.

The fiendish caballeros,
They can no longer harm
The innocent rancheros,
Half-starving on the farm.

A one-time oligarchy,
El pueblo now control
The government’s hierarchy,
With libertad its goal.

Yet now the former victims
Have morphed into the brutes
He ousted, and their dictums
Are backed up with their boots.

He fought with the assumption
That evil was a class,
Who hoarded all corruption.
But now he’s learned, alas,

That every group is evil,
That every man is prone
To whims that are medieval,
Which can’t be overthrown.

“Mierda!” he pronounces
And catapults his blade,
Then bitterly renounces
The character he played.

He will not ride tomorrow.
He’ll weep and fill his flask,
Then light a fat cigarro
And burn his famous mask.