gershon hepner Poems

Instead of great totalitarian eyes
controlled by an Orwellian Big Brother,
we’re all observed, and can obtain our highs
by making videotapes of one another.
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For President Ford chewing gum was
a problem while crossing the road,
but surely a man far more dumb was
the prince who was kissed as a toad.
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Britney’s song called “Baby One More Time”
played backwards reads as, “Sleep with me, I’m not too young.”
Am I perhaps too forward in my rhyme
when I say, “Don’t be backward, baby, look—I am well hung! ”
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“Let’s seize foxes that destroy
vineyards, ” say the ripe young maids,
each one anxious to enjoy
boys they call in serenades.
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Harps and martyrs, peasants, saints and civil wars,
bar-maids, red-heads, emigrants, and singers, writers,
priests and politicians, laborers and whores,
always ready for a drink and to be fighters.
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Bending backwards, disobedient,
can be lots of fun, the bum
exciting he who finds expedient
spanking of the bowing bum.
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I do hope this poem won’t shock or offend you,
it’s not my intention to do you such wrong,
but this is the last one that ever I’ll send you
if you are not naked when I end my song.
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While some believe they need a title
to make their poetry ignite,
I find the first line to be vital
in every wordsong that I write,
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Arms and legs I now am singing,
and clothes that cover flesh and, clinging,
inspire poets more than Muses,
because bare skin provides excuses
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“Please God, buy me a Mercedes! ”
That’s the prayer that’s often heard
from penurious, lovely ladies,
and it’s surely not absurd.
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