What have I done to you sweet ego? I have chased too much poetry, and verse, I've rehearsed, with Viggo Mortenson. I've sinned, I've let my belly out of the telly. I've Sonnets of meat jelly, and Vilanelles Of both Pastrami and Mannicotti, but still I've the finger to not! Eat much more, I might swig a whore. Good, and quite sore, I'll implore you to answer the phone more, while I work on eating a bone, or regurgitating a clone from some B movie nostalgia kept loan, on why I care enough about you. Simmering away all morning, and scorning my top button popping off into the sun. Oh, you round mutton Oh, you crusty meatloaf Lord, the Sea Bass is something, and the Muscles with rice pilaf. There are six kinds of salad And a Mexican ballad, about whether or not it's valid to eat dessert when there's more... To eat after dancing? I should have brought a tape recorder when I crossed the border. A smart poet would know that it's impossible to write that fast from the soul with one elbow and a mouthful of whole oysters and Tequila with a bowl to rinse off your fingers with lemons. Weddings are for food. The poets drink is fine Let me not be rude To the bride's maid that has pined, away at my lap all day. Tonight shall be candles, and wet lips against what rips up from behind to remind the bee that the flower's power is in the worded line, Then the poetry is mine. Yes, and I can just unwind. In time with another coming Summer. And the lovers, With their preen. I dream away Of food and young lovers. This is something I do for the world. This is something I do To feel alive, and remember you. And how we were together.