Don’t forget the bowl for the hand-wash
to be frigged around in the list. How else can we
get all those glands dried? Squeeze!
To staunch all that woe of naval heroes,
to get swabs (oh kissers, ah phizzes) back on
track. The loins, as known for centuries,
end in a slack undercurl, landlousy.
That’s why we stand shaking like heathens,
Belting each other left and right round the thighs
with hard facts: a course in fruitflesh
marking on this ash-grey terrain will
from the very start make us crushedly crawl
off the cuff sappy brood, unless permanently
fixed the pouting suds, bashful nosegay of
seafood, are kept a beady eye on
by our plainspoken, well-earned sod hut.