Awakens not my wolf-man to the moon
For that it shines a silver discus full,
For he may rise when clouds the thickest dull
The round moon’s lustre, or when the clock strikes noon.
One sorceress alone doth have the pow’r
T’arouse the beast, and he doth her obey;
And from her side the beast doth never stray,—
So loveth him the witch and the witching hour.
Yet, by my troth, the wolf-man hath no love
For her and hers which greater is than mine:
By daylight, blackest night, or moony shine,
My love doth neither wax nor wane nor rove.
However, unlike the love the beast doth keep,
My love can’t wake, for it doth never sleep.
His better days were long ago done:
He's a bitter old man at thirty-one.
He’ll spare the rod only to spoil
The gagging throat with castor oil.
With curvy spines grow all the trees,
As though they passed round scoliosis
Like people pass a cold and sneeze,
Or swine-flu, or tuberculosis.
Pick at a crusty
A sound like none you’ve ever heard
Is Gulda on the clavichord:
Sublime and strange, the player roasts
The music of the land of ghosts.
Let health-nuts wear out running shoes,
And let them eat their Wheaties,
While we enjoy some Mountain Dews,
And drink to diabetes!