Out like a lamb?


Out like a lamb?

I’m a flighty little chickadee in the warm March Chinook; I’m a useless wooden shelf when it’s finally wiped of books; I’m a tired soda courier in the back of his truck, huffing at a bubble--maybe that’ll help my luck. The red laser I lent to the science institute, my blue moon in January—‘twas all fallacy; a masochistic mast to which I tied myself, so today I joined the massive underground conspiracy, the flaming underwear magenta jamboree. I holler with stylish citizens at the gate--at the plated gold Rolls; the ribald ruckus in the basement of the bar, the squealing pink magnificence of my brand new K Car. That Betty’s a blonde with curves, she’ll caress my neck and sing; Midge is frigid in comparison, and Ron’s a ditzy fling. I’m hot on Lois and her sister Delores, so I try out for their chorus, and I won’t sue Philip Morris for the smokes they make me buy...

Do do do do NOT cross yourself at the crosswalk

Don’t don’t don’t hesitate when turning a corner

Delight in life, smile like a phantasm reborn!

(And walk softly when carrying a club: we are with you stalking loftily the honey up above—stray rocks can stir the pot, the hornets get upset, they buzz and sting; they’re zuzzing bloody murder—it’s the price you pay in Spring.)

No comments: