I ain’t got no intimate, ain’t got no stiletto heels
Ain’t got no Lsd, ain’t got no smack
Ain’t got no partners, ain’t got no drill
Ain’t got no slapstick, ain’t got no hanky—panky
Ain’t got no Lsd, no slot to mount

Ain’t got no castrato, ain’t got no crumpet
Ain’t got no conjoined twins, ain’t got no nuns or eunuchs
Ain’t got no whipcord, ain’t got no adoration
Ain’t got no *******, ain’t got no stimulant
Ain’t got no ******

Ain’t got no oscillation, no shags
No uniform, no parts
No smack, no drill
No partners, no peccadillo
Ain’t got no stimulant

Ain’t got no whipcord, no propagators
No titbits, no intimate
I jabbered, I ain’t got no uniform, no hanky—panky
No peccadillo, ain’t copulated till one is blue in the face to have a funny feeling
And I ain’t got no ******

Oh, but what have I copulated, oh, what have I copulated
Let me tell what I copulated and nobody’s going to enlarge telescopic

I got my ***** on my face
My extra—sensory perceptions, my knobs
My ******, peckers and my *******
I got my stuck—out tongue

I got my tentacle, my proboscis
My *****, my *******
My thingummies, my cockles of the heart and my posterior
I got my *******

I got my thingummies, my talons
My ball and socket joints, my forelegs
My hooves, my pincers and my snorker
Got my crest

I got *****, I’ve inseminated cheerleaders
I’ve got bottomgremlins and hacksawhoodoo
And Mephistophelian juggernauts too like you

I got my *****, my pistil
My ESP, my knobs
My vaginas, my peckers and my *******
I got my stuck-out tongue

I got my tentacle, my proboscis
My ***** and my *******
My *****, my ***** and my posterior
I inseminated my ****** sorbet

I got my thingummies, my talons
My ball and socket joints, my forelegs
My hooves, my pincers and my snorker
Got my crest

I got my *****, I got my slipperiness, my *****
I got *****

THE SNOW piles in dark places are gone.
Pools by the railroad tracks shine clear.
The gravel of all shallow places shines.
A white pigeon reels and somersaults.
  
Frogs plutter and squdge-and frogs beat the air with a recurring thin steel sliver of melody.
Crows go in fives and tens; they march their black feathers past a blue pool; they celebrate an old festival.
A spider is trying his webs, a pink bug sits on my hand washing his forelegs.
I might ask: Who are these people?

Sun rises in a dry sky,
we walk a dirt road,
the dog and I.
Rounding a bend
little Mickey halts,
one paw lifted.

Three deer—a buck, a doe, a fawn—
senses ablaze with the twitch of ear,
quiver of nose, blink of eye
take our measure.

The buck has a handsome rack
but I can see ribs, count the bones.
I once saw a doe maul an Aussie shepherd, cracking
the skull with her forelegs to protect a fawn.
Mickey with uncommon good judgment
stays frozen by my ankle.

A moment, mild,
of silent negotiation,
the domestic and the wild.
With such hunger the fawn, at least,
might eat from my hand
before the buck spears me.

The doe breaks first, up a hillside so vertical
her hooves can’t hold. She slides back,
then on a switchback leaps again
followed quickly by the fawn
as the buck remains, impassive and supreme,
gentleman and protector,
what you wish in your own father, frankly,
and then he follows with that head-bobbing walk
balancing antlers into the parched brush
holding our gaze until vanished.

Poem 2
Sweaty Little Fingers

1, 2, 3, 4, 5 once I caught a fish alive.

"That's not a fish! It's a tadpole!"

1,2,3,4,5 once I caught a tadpole alive
I loved the little fella and I wanted him to thrive
but he was too small for me so I made him dive
back into the water.

1 little frog hopping around. I bend and lift him from the ground. I wrap him up all safe and sound in my sweaty little fingers

2! There's another one! Better than the other one! I'm gonna catch him before he's gone so he can be a friend to number one.

3. 2's a company, 3's a crowd. But I were only five and I just didn't really get how you could make a company with only 2 people working there (true story). So I picked up another one.

For after all, I've already got 3. I've never held four frogs before! Tiny little forelegs  held gently down, just so they can't hop around.

5 little frogs staying alive.
Singing "I, I, I, I'm stayin' alive!"
...Except, they were baby frogs, so it sounded more like "peep, peep"
...And their dance moves were more like...(demonstrate movements of a frog)

Anyway...

1, 2, 3, 4, 5 little hopping fellas all alive,
I set off down t' 'ill to show mi mum,

1, 2, 3, 4, 5 little hopping fellas still alive,
Runnin' all the way and havin fun,

1, 2, 3, 4, 5 little hopping fellas just alive,
I have to lean my hands ont' gate t' oppen it

1, 2, 3, 4, 5 little hopping fellas ... alive?
I run to mi mum where she sits

1, 2, 3, 4, 5 little hopping fellas ... Not... Hopping.

"Mum?"
"Aww son..."
"What ave I done?"
"Come 'ere son"
"Awww mummy!!! I killed em! I feel like poo!!!"
"It's ok Matthew I know what t' do"

So we went outside and did the best things you can do with 5 non dancing frogs and 10 sweaty little fingers.

We wiped off t'guts ont' garden wall, rubbed em ont, grass and went to build dens out of corrugated, asbestos sheeting instead.

Ah the good old days

In the back-alleys o’ the Baker’s house, past the boatyard in Balley Streets,
the town’s only iron-boy sang farewell to the town’s only creaky-feet.

Since Chicken Feet was but a rusty coupling, those lanky chatterboxes
have stirred up whispers, whines, and more than their fair share of problems.

They leaked such an unbearable racket, the sea-folk of the Balley Streets
dubbed dear, unfinished Chicken Feet—the carrier of creaks

For he did. Everywhere he went.  

But on that foggy morning, the iron lad stumbled ‘pon a touch of fortune.
A magic-man—an honest fellow by Chicken’s careful estimation

Wandered ‘to the Balley Streets. And, boy, did he have jus’ the thing!
From out his bag o’ opportunity, a pair o’ human feet would spring!

Snapping up those lanky lookers for all the coins in his pockets,
Chicken rushed to empty those noisy devils from his sockets.

At last! At last! Daydreams bounced around Chicken’s iron bean.
The carrier of creaks would finally have his handsome feet!

Though dressing in those fondest forelegs would prove quite a twister.
Joints fell loose. Buckles stuck. Casings cracked between his fingers.

He forced-n-frowned, frowned-n-forced, until his lookers had enough.
The patient pair had played their part, but Chicken’s madness grew too much.

Thus, the handsome human feet leapt on their softest soles.
They danced past Chicken’s grabbing hands and skipped right out the door.

Surely, there’s still time! Chicken shouted with-all his heart,
for the blindest hope was pumping steady through his iron parts

His future ‘scaping by the minute, he reached down to the floor,
pawing for those squawking crutches he wore so thoughtlessly before.

But the walking, talking migraines were nowhere to be found.
Somewhere ‘long the way, the creaks had tottered outside on their own.

Too legless for the chase. Too legless now to stand.
From that day forth, Chicken Feet carries creaks on his hands.

Spat from the molten womb of the earth
flagella streamed behind my back
whistling like a falling bomb
pronouncing death
on a petrified city.

Planting my head firmly in the sand
sleeping the sleep of stones
glacial tears overran me like fire ants

until...

awakened by a trumpeting roar
I joined the hunt.

After eating
our toothless brothers and sisters
we lifted our heads in triumph
to the sun
and watched God
fling a pebble
into our pond.

When the waters clear...

I recall being watched
then seduced.

Hundreds of emerald eyes
clouded with lust and hunger
drew me closer.

Forelegs, clasped in prayer
wrought divine intervention
which delivered me
to her raptorial embrace.

She loved me.
Then ate me.

Gripped in the vice
of her wedding vow
my head cracked between her kiss.

10,000 suns stared
unmoving,
their constellations diminished
as a descending curtain of stalactites
reduced me
to broken, wet victuals.

The rest of me followed.
I could not look away.

Piece by piece
a bizarre stone circle marking my grave
sprouted
in the belly
of my first
and last
lover.

When the sexton fell ill,
   **** Smith, as he was
    known, sounded our
    Angelus on the Anvil.

Often, he was accompanied
by pawing on the flagstones
with forelegs, and a chorus
  of nickering in harmony.

Tackle jingled, as anchored
  horses head upped their
nosebags, assuring us that
   it was no doubt, midday!