Who robbed the teddy of its sleep
by whispering of lions?
Who killed the poor electric charge
by stealing all its ions?
Who built a bridge across the fridge
and covered it with cream?
Who copped a night time attitude
they passed off as a dream?
Who named his cur Poor Goodnight Sir
and numbered all the lambies?
Why it’s the lad who’s only bad
when dressed in stolen jammies.
No pet’s smarter than a dog.
I heard someone say it.
You could buy a dog a drum,
teach him how to play it.
Not the kind that uses sticks;
that would be all wrongo:
one where he could use his paws,
tom-tom like, or bongo.
You could make a ton of change
down the supermarket.
Even teach him how to sing,
though he’d have to bark it.
People exiting the store
would just be struck dumb,
when they heard that damn dog howl
"We Shall Overcome."
The nest is chocked with sentimental thieves.
Washed-out cries ferment the hose factory.
Criminal justice is replaced with hysterical laughter.
All for the better: the stocks are going rotten,
not a plague in sight, and the bars full of beaters,
painful music producing prodigious polyphony.
Clocks, dropped like breadcrumbs, bewitch.
Compulsive compassion is the last dying thread.
A large blanket of forgiveness has been draped
over the various prisons, and onto the horizon.
Everywhere I travel,
I always bring some gravel.
It adds a bit of timbre to my voice.
If I don’t sound majestic,
one merely need suggest it.
I swallow some rocks, orate and rejoice.
I am just a rookie who dropped a pass.
I hit a sixty-two but wound up last.
I’m poetry after the chiefs are gassed.
I’m impossible drift; I’m the trailer.
I kicked a whopper into t.v. land.
I clipped the goal post and the salsa band.
The rule: down over and a grain of sand.
Above it all, I stay, the sailor.