Romantic Poet Sick to Death of the Muse

Verily I have been lax with you 
Of late I know, but I swear 
Over the graves of my venerable 
Forebearers I will be lax no more— 

The next time I hear you 
Whistling in time to the lullaby 
Of bombs dropping softly 
Into laps of babes 

I shall drop everything, 
Drop straight to my knees 
And—dare I say it?— 
Pray you call no more. 

Skid Row Tenement House Rotgut

So rotten the rickety flight 
Of stairs you had to hold 
Your breath and nose all 

The way ending 
Up stinking drunk 
On the bum 

On the ground 
Floor landing up 
Side down. 

Downtown Sidewalk after Deluge

Scum all 
Washed away— 

Cement scrubbed so 
Clean urchins soak 

Up hopscotch 
On it night and day. 

Concupiscent Sirens

Oh most baffled 
Of bedeviled public 
Men, should you chance 
To come upon a ship 

Stranded miraculously 
On top of a mountain, think 
Out of the box, do not be 
Dumbfounded, do not founder 

In the maelstrom 
Of male stupidity, it’s clear 
As that insistent throbbing 
In your dimwitted heads— 

A woman’s lone pubic 
Hair has dragged it there! 

Food for Thought

Grit your teeth on this 
Piece of homily, ‘Murica— 
Just so 

You can squeal 
Your piggy little hearts out, 
Once we have the elections 

In the bag, you’ll be free 
To skedaddle out 
Of the poke unfettered 

And amble in 
To the nearest Salvation 
Army melting pot.