I might drip from head to toe
And melt onto the page
And finding no room at the inn
Fly off into a rage
Taking off at Eight-Oh-Four
From Terminal Nineteen
With all my friends in dubious tow
Affixed with Velva-Sheen
And smelling quite terrific
Like garbage in the road
Drop them, each and everyone
Until the lawn gets mowed

Then again,…

 Maybe I won’t.

rjw, Spring ‘88

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