Your hair is flaxen dyed,
this I know, my Flavia,
as I know that you are
an Arabian slave, dark at the root;
you, owned and controlled
in bed and out
by that fine ass
Linus, who will never learn that
the more he speaks
out of turn the more
his bald stupidity becomes
conspicuous to his constituents.
Listen, he farts
in the temple of Venus,
bellowing in echoes
of bare-assed embarrassment.
But you and I, far away
from such pillared proceedings,
the gallery’s pillory,
and Rome’s usual contumely,
we enjoy Cardea’s gentle breeze
as she wrestles the Venti
in liver and spleen, blowing
past our bedchamber window.
TAGGED WITH: STINKY POETRY
Oh, man, is this excellent.
I’m not sure it belongs in Groundwork either, but is it ever good.
I’ll tell you the real story behind them one of these days over a tobacco and whiskeys.
JOB