My Mother Was A Chinese Trapese Artist

My mother was a Chinese trapeze artist
 In pre-war Paris
 Smuggling bombs for the underground.
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 And she met my father
 At a fete in Aix-en-Provence.
 He was disguised as a Russian cadet
 In the employ of the Axis.
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 And there in the half-light
 Of the provincial midnight
 To a lone concertina
 They drank in cantinas
 And toasted to Edith Piaf
 And the fall of the Reich.
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 My sister was born in a hovel in Burgundy
 And left for the cattle
 But later was found by a communist
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 Who'd deserted his ranks
 To follow his dream
 To start up a punk rock band in South Carolina.
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 I get letters sometimes.
 They bought a plantation
 She weeds the tobacco
 He offends the nation
 And they write, "Don't be a stranger, y'hear."
 "Sincerely, your sister."
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 So my parents had me
 To the disgust of the prostitutes
 On a bed in a brothel.
 Surprisingly raised with tender care
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 'Til the money got tight
 And they bet me away
 To a blind brigadier in a game
 Of high stakes canasta.
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 But he made me a sailor
 On his brigadier ship fleet.
 I know every yardarm
 From main mast to jib sheet.
 But sometimes I long to be landlocked
 And to work in a bakery.