To stalk the noble tusk wearing toupee.
To quip, to rob, and not care once who raged.
To poach jaws from one’s cousin in the spree
and next day appear mild amid the crazed
vets who flash steel throughout the dom, stand heel
to heel on their yachts shouting ashore, “You!
Ahoy! Forty ivory trophies! Feel
you know who’d steal ‘em!?!” To stand by a yew,
picking aril from its stalk, posing smile
of infant, innocent wave, hold up six
fingers like an imbecile. When they’re miles
off, I’ll nibble greens, give the dirty pricks
a vengeful “Ha!” Weld songs of six pet larks
into a medley, singing through the park.
Roger Armbrust
March 14, 2008
