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.