I tried a pound of troubadour
and yodelled through the night.
She wasn't very happy:
I'd sung quite out of tune.
I took that packet back,
it was clearly rather off.

I bought a pound of lust
labelled for "De Sade";
I turned round to my partner
and beat her with a rose.

My partner got annoyed:
the next one that I bought
took me someone else.
The milkman didn't care:
he'd seen it all before.
No milk for me next week.

So I went back to the aisle
and found another sort
so she could manage things,
mixing an illusion
and the misuse of a horse.

We've sampled all the styles,
and only one was dull.

According to my horoscope
it's this that I should like:
I read it in the paper
that ranted at a restaurant
and got a chef arrested
for chilli in a dish,

it tells me,
I should be

as if
a man
could choose

the food
that he
was born
to eat.

image: poem



this archive is hosted by arts & ego
© 1978-2023 dylan harris