‘Two for me, none for you’

Twinkle, twinkle chocolate bar
Oh I wonder what you are.

Silky to touch and burnt as sun
just like the boy of Kwasi Bunn
who goes to work and not to school
And like his dad they say a fool.

Twinkle, twinkle chocolate bar
Oh I wonder what you are.

Gentle and soft but twist to snap,
just like the sleep ended by slap,
so trees are climbed to slice and chop
for bean or thumb to pop and plop.

Twinkle, twinkle chocolate bar
Oh I wonder what you are.

Earthy and sweet for tongue and lip,
borne high in sacks on back or hip
then marched to cell for corn and paste
and wash in water fresh with waste

Twinkle, twinkle chocolate bar
Oh I wonder what you are.

Milky and rich from meadow grass
all green like boys who spray and gas
the bugs in fleshy skin and bone
to die, for what is reaped is sown

Twinkle, twinkle chocolate bar
Oh I wonder what you are.

Published in I am not a silent poet

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Tyrants of the nether regions

The basic problem that I see,
just between you and me,
are the jangle dangles of a man,
some too small to scan,
or of the size that water eyes,
that you and I with flies,
know tickle wickle best in wind,
and yet in cotton they get pinned.
Briefs pull in and up and cup,
trunks chafe thighs and show what’s up
was not as promised from the kiss.
While bikini jockstraps are the miss
they sound, as dangles strangle tight,
and cheeks moon for creepies bite.
Of course Boxers give swing and sway
but ditch them all and go commando I’d say.

Published in Clear Poetry

At Christmas and Thanksgiving

Missy likes family gatherings
but for the cakes all cream and spice
not for the uncles who ain’t nice.

As for the aunts they are dumplings
old and frumpy with nerves jumpy
’cause she heard they made men geldings.

But if asked she will say all nice,
Missy likes family gatherings.

Missy leaves family gatherings
when any cousin did entice
for then gin had worn out the ice.

And she thought they had no inklings
as she ate cake without a break
but all knew of her true feelings.

So one and all made sure each slice
left Missy sick of gatherings

The Poetorialist