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poor old Lambkin
Poor old Lambkin built a ship
with timbers from his mother’s lip
and tar squeezed out of fairy tales
and telly screens and such;
a mainsail woven out of guff
from magazines and horoscopes
and ropes spun out of grandma’s hopes;
a mast of looking glass.
Out to the Sea of Love he sailed
and as at last he sunk the land
behind that slender frail stern,
the plan he’d planned got out of hand:
not another sail to see
but creatures risen from the deep,
deformed, lopsided, overbearing,
scaly buggers (monstrous beaks).
Some enraged at lovers past
spat caustic bile upon the mast.
Others cowed by vicious exes
screamed down from their crucifixes.
Frigid monsters (icy breath)
did huff and puff to speed his death
and randy ones with virus loins
rained warts the size of cannon balls.
Lambkin bravely fought the fight,
the sea got savage, day got night:
a crimson crash of menstrual blood
had caused the hold to fill and flood,
and when a blast of steroid cream
did rent his vessel down the beam
he plunged into the murky still
already thirty (and quite ill).
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