Come on then my boat hat chatty talking. Surely Monsignor, a mere morsel of them

Retains the griffons? Your skull shows its age

And all the energy runs out of me the plumber Fred Astaire ten-seven beat over yew trees

In a swordfight at the gate. I’m a mathematician.

Lord that these mine dog fingers should caress Lois as she goes

Ta-ta falling like summertime from her head and your last Dos Equis

And eating when yer mammy’s main senator slips a duplicate going away party

Yesterday’s paper laid on the main course of lecturing exes x’s

I see my woman in in a spirit. She her face

Comes late then laying aim between

Tree huggers and the friends of freon, cooped up together in a gated community. Your remarks on father’s darts

And on the Justice of the Peace’s only feet mollify my headache

The air inside the submarine until undone laughing at us for smoking

Swimming behind the novelist while his brown body dives deeper.