The Dzmc Apocrypha 16

oh, i could write a quatraine
about the ugly
blot stain upon the
old escutcheon of what
was your good
name. you'll be getting
ready to shovel down
spaghetti or
something just as steady
to cover your shame.
on the big number
five avenue, some
lucky fellow will
share an umbrella with
armies and armies
of red fire ants, while
dancing around, hardly
touching the
ground, as though they had
all somehow
crawled up his pants.

then, dropping a
weight and some more extra freight, i
point to the night
sky, so sultry. wishing
nothing but giggles to all
who draw squiggles, i
shout, the moon
is not golden,
it's poultry.