I ain’t your pathetic fellow,
to stroke myself well, often, and proud,
out of and over this comfortable country,
merely knew once very fondly, darling,
now it only continues those down under blocks,
you got me, numbingly beautiful girl,
just lacking sure interest while busy eating.
Green strawberries churned in a cyclone,
poked full with feathers ready for ants’ homes,
and no screening necessary, missy,
dropping your magic wand between my quivering legs,
up to where we all began in some way,
rather have a bit more privacy,
but I must admit there’s a certain attraction still.
Chasing yarn playfully below a crossed sandal marquee,
above these bunny snags in your smelly trims of shag,
knocking lamps and like toddlers laid prone,
on to them decreasing balls attached about raging needles,
thoroughly late in its brash swearing of time enough,
maybe presented during their next holiday,
until then I’ll do my best to delay it even further.
Hourly comeuppance driving as a rejected superstar’s desire,
reminding folks’ conscience of one’s humble limitations,
smashed around the burns through checkered lawns, boys,
atop the net strapping two sagging trees,
licking leaves gawking at your luscious fermentation,
beneath another sticky cool umbrella,
counting that blissful serenade of parked vehicles yet again.
Sharwrong's Song 