trying to reconcile my image of a semi-retired slouch
with my OCD has been no Spring picnic
more people seem fixated on a speckled fawn
than concerned with a flight of geese
poets anthropomorphize plants and rocks and things
while I struggle with inanimate objects
my MMPI reveals a predilection for occasional chairs that swivel
more than once I've been called upon to ask myself,
"What would a Monkey do?"
I never understood what they meant by "fat ladies in glasses"
until I'd been under surveillance by the Secret Service
they talk of War and all the while I've fought myself
and I'm one tough son-of-a-bitch
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