Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Ratolinguistics

Forgive me for stealing this line,
But you have Legs like God’s own barge poles.
The legs of a runner, who failed,
Throwing salt over his left shoulder.
You have the legs not unlike a woman’s.

You have an arresting way,
Of exhaling when you’re bored.
It frightened me into a militant attention,
During which I shouted;
SORRY I CAN’T BE PETER SELLERS FOR YOU
Very, very loudly,
My Catholicism showing like a panty-line.

When you’re blue, I am usually red.
And when we play in the paddock,
I am usually the horse.
Your eyes would gouge me then,
All cranberry and grapefruit.
All rat-babies, and cake-pans,
And blonde and orange and furious.

Whenever you come around
It seems like Neil Young is playing.
I am reminded of the way
He shamelessly gave birth to several epileptic sons.
You carried me over dirty Spring,
Illness carries over generations.

Let’s keep skip-ip-ipping along.

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

candid, clever. maybe better without stanza breaks? that last line neeeds to not be sitting all out on its lonesome

Blake said...

I agree. Maybe make it the title of the piece?

Will said...

This is pretty god damned funny. Who is Panda?