Oh, Jack.
I would stand bowlegged
in the kitchen
apron bound
making dem ham and eggs
and I couldn't tell you
that "you just don't know...
how good this ham and eggs is.
If you khad any idea whatsoever
how good this is, then you would stop writing poetry
and dig in."
But if you wanted,
I could tell you to cut off
that pointed moustache
that you grew in the sanitarium
on one of your many drug cures.
And sometimes I don't know
what you're talking about
"Iki solousu fruidrit!"
but I love love you.
It's okay if you're fat
though you'd rather
be thin than famous.
I won't throw you out of the bed
screaming "Gordo!"
Excuse me,
it's a beautiful, happy
June afternoon.
Would you like to walk in it?
We're all going to die anyway.