show me a bit of baudy
for all the strut, where’s the magic touch proof
muscle shirt Cohen verse, kleenexed codpieces
of pity lines, the main thing is what I paid to see
offstage — not the dance,
the full (round, monty, backle)
naked contact with greatness,
Now unbuckle the clever fripperies of syn-
tax and sense. Flash me your brilliance. Names?
This ain’t no geisha sonnet foreplay. Get me?
Why keep so many good feelings separated
by arbitrary labels — just a quick general thust,
tingle up a circulation bump, grind your goodies
til I sweat, jill off, chill out, move on. pay? (snort)
fade that to the romantic black you need.