DONNY JOHNNY (© Words and music by Paul F. Cowlan )

Adapted from a poem of mine about Don Juan, called ‘The Don Grasps it.’ Not before time, bless him! The title is filched from Lord Byron.


Don Juan wakes to a smack in the head,
sits up and looks around.
Bolt upright in the middle of the bed,
but he doesn’t hear a sound.

The emerald shines in his white gold ring,
there are ruffled cuffs and velvet clothes.
The sword’s in the scabbard, and everything
is lying in sweet repose.

He says, “How much did I drink last night?
What was that woman’s name?
How come she’s out of sight?
And who’s to blame?”


“It can’t be me ‘cos I’m ‘The Man’.
That’s what all the papers say.
‘The King of the Cats is cool Don Juan.’
So, how did she get away?”

“Things aren’t quite what they were.
I don’t know what it is, but something’s gone.
I used to kick up the dust and cause a stir.
So, now what’s going on?”

“’Cos now the lady’s found her own way home,
leaving heeltaps, smoke and cherry stones.
I’ve got an eggshell head and funny bones,
and I’m not on form today. No way!”


“Is that a message on the Venice glass?
I think I recognise a woman’s hand.
Maybe this time I ought to let it pass.
But I just don’t understand.”

She writes. ‘You were lucky to get that far,
with your coal black horses and your jaunting car,
but you’re not as special as you think you are;
and, boy, you got a lot to learn!”


Now Don Juan sits in the middle of the bed,
pinching his libido black and blue,
taking long, deep breaths and shaking his head.
What’s a man supposed to do?

Seems like the lady got through.