Sedated, pink-and-tan nighties float under my eyelids.
My Love has flown, I'll not have those sheep-shearing kids.
I'll line up a Russian mail-order bride, put in a low bid.
Twisting in dreams, posing in a babe-magnet tractor,
Caking on make-up with zeal and a dash of Max Factor.
Wish it worked; the spinster downwind? Never faaked her.
I roll over, throat-farting, without a master.
Dick sore from misuse, protected by salve in a plaster.
My Beauty, chatting with a mainlander, can't get past her.
I'll trail my grief like a Liberace boa behind my florid past
And take a jackhammer to break up this plaster-of-paris cast.
Poetic acolytes I cherish, enjoying a dirt-and-bark repast.
Flying in dreams, flying off the handle, flies behind my fly,
Motor oil to my tenderest regions I liberally apply.
My Love will have to wait, ha! I'll get by by-and-by.
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