Gruntled at the combobulation
all about him the old man
stiffens like peckerwood
at the mere suggestion
he might be missing something.
“Missing what?” he demands.
“The paradom assails me
with haymakers left and right.
I am bludgeoned by bands of
roving yahoos. Why I have it all.”
He snorts and tugs at a pendulous lobe.
“What more could one want?
I’m still in it, aren’t I?
And if I should sense something missing,
all’s to be done is to take a short stroll
where I’ll be met by the sacred scent
of some saint’s hallowed pissings.”
poetastrophy 