Mama, could you spare a little sympathy, please?
I’ve been crossing my eyes, dotting my teas
under skies which reflect a paler shade of blue,
where wide-eyed Pooh-bears (and elastic Tiggers, too)
long ago frolicked with honeying bees.
And blooming critics squirmed and swiveled at their desks,
turning oodles of bellecrostic arabesques,
cutting their teeth on iliads of flight
and honing gross distinctions between left and right.
Show me, Mama, the bleeding tubers of April!
Have mercy on December’s meek and miffed.
I’m less than proficient but more than a wastrel.
Pour a little snake oil into your timeless riff!
And permit us, Mama, our pound of fun.
We were prudes beneath an unmitigated sun.
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