Hear, hear—
Not being an apple,
Poets know writing a poem
A day never keeps crazy
Doctors at bay but why
Should that dismay us,
Especially when our good doc just
Happens to be one who dances
Naked before his bedroom mirror,
Sings softly and raids the fridge,
Eating the plums his sleeping wife was
More than likely saving for her
Breakfast but being a perfect
Gentleman with surfeit pangs
Of regret, leaves a note asking her
Forgiveness, his mouth bulging
With cool sweet nothings for her
And all the world’s nutty
Fruitcakes to hear.
