Belladonna Charade Poem by Robert Rorabeck

This fever is from alcohol;
And I can’t spell-
I am no samurai-
I have no code of honor, no greater ideology
Than to sneak out after midnight and
Kick my heels up on the swings;
And I wonder if alcohol makes me a lesser man,
Gives you a reason not to think of me;
Makes me gray:
Yes, I am dying- dying for you- dying for you
All alone, the spit of flower in the crook
Of the mountain’s bosom higher up than
Your head- you will never see the spot
Where I die: I will die, and my color will fade,
And my belladonna charade will wilt-
Not even your sister will pick me up,
If I choose to move nearer her;
And it is all wrong.
The alligators fart in the silt- and I never buy
New clothes- I never go to Disney World,
But I love you,
And why that is, I suppose, is because I have a spot
In me which likes to migrate nearer the beautiful
Highway which has your eyes,
Which is so long and dangerous and never-ending
Which is the moral of the sad fable,
I suppose.