The Mezunian

Die Positivität ist das Opium des Volkes, aber der Spott ist das Opium der Verrückten


Limbs sway suggestively in the wind

just like shapely human hips.

How your leaves scatter here & there

as humanoids fling their loose hair.

If roughness were treasure, I’d invest

in your trunk o’er the hairiest chest;

for I know your bronze wood’s renowned

& e’en supplements my own.

I know your wide black hole holds mo’

nuts that any human’s could hope;

& Sweeter the sap sucked from your branches

than butter splattered from the beefiest phallus.

So, oak, I dedicate this song to you;

for I know when the years suck all o’ my skin’s juice,

you’ll still look no older than 22.

Posted in Poetry