Petite ticklers at the party kept
their distance from a particular guest
until the time of silence when I
mentioned how she sobbed when
the host played the march of death
on his gold trombone and all the rest
squirmed and grimaced,
bobbed like rotten apples
in stagnant water
held their bad breath
and you my dear date
burned your bra in a late
fit of defiance
while the fish oil
in your purse
stank like hot iron.
This party’s over!
thank god for that,
grab your waist/
coat and your
quite over the top
bold crimson top hat.
Stash the capsules of fish
near their massive front door,
while the butler’s blue eyes
lock much on blonde
Maud’s deep bowls
of pink jello,
her quivering cleavage
(such a gelatinous whore)
it’s time for a stand
to take like a man:
we’ll party oddly
and bodily mingle
be tickled passive
and fickle with giggling
buffoons and strumpets
blowing on trumpets
no god damn
more!
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