01-17-2015, 02:14 AM
I don't know maybe it will be funny. I guess this isn't really a poem.
The vista got me thinking of George Washington
and I thought perhaps the founding fathers
were as horny as Walt Whitman,
but, I wondered, what on Earth would get them off?
were they fond of rumpus buddies like old Socrates,
or were they into something more?
Jefferson, for one, was fond of whips and chains,
and I think he liked a furtive tryst with
those people that dear Shakespeare had called sunburned.
But perhaps there's more, perhaps he liked to
plunder raisins from behind
and then like shaggy say it wasn't me.
However, George, the chopper of the cherry tree,
seems so much nastier to me, and I'll tell you why this is.
I, like all the buckle hats before me, am terribly ashamed of sex
and all of those associated acts involving rubbing and what-not.
Yet guilt is like the naked skin of Artemis, and dare I say the spice of love.
To add a bit of some perspective here,
I've seen the moon wax full and wane into a gibbous twenty four times
since last I've seen a nipple that was not on its surface.
So, let me say that thinking of George Washington
and how he may have been piqued by the lushness of a vista
makes me horny at the thought of capturing the hidden din of birds.
He may have stood by all his maps which must have seemed
like magic landscapes that appeared as shrunken heads.
and so, like he would manacle a pinpoint to attack
I would blind a falcon, boil up a sky-lark in a pot of lard,
or even barbecue a cooling swan.
I hear that warble and the drummer boy
and mason jars of whiskey make me fight for Uncle Sam.
The vista got me thinking of George Washington
and I thought perhaps the founding fathers
were as horny as Walt Whitman,
but, I wondered, what on Earth would get them off?
were they fond of rumpus buddies like old Socrates,
or were they into something more?
Jefferson, for one, was fond of whips and chains,
and I think he liked a furtive tryst with
those people that dear Shakespeare had called sunburned.
But perhaps there's more, perhaps he liked to
plunder raisins from behind
and then like shaggy say it wasn't me.
However, George, the chopper of the cherry tree,
seems so much nastier to me, and I'll tell you why this is.
I, like all the buckle hats before me, am terribly ashamed of sex
and all of those associated acts involving rubbing and what-not.
Yet guilt is like the naked skin of Artemis, and dare I say the spice of love.
To add a bit of some perspective here,
I've seen the moon wax full and wane into a gibbous twenty four times
since last I've seen a nipple that was not on its surface.
So, let me say that thinking of George Washington
and how he may have been piqued by the lushness of a vista
makes me horny at the thought of capturing the hidden din of birds.
He may have stood by all his maps which must have seemed
like magic landscapes that appeared as shrunken heads.
and so, like he would manacle a pinpoint to attack
I would blind a falcon, boil up a sky-lark in a pot of lard,
or even barbecue a cooling swan.
I hear that warble and the drummer boy
and mason jars of whiskey make me fight for Uncle Sam.