Booty Juice Poem by gershon hepner

Street people call it booty juice;
I do not know a better word.
It flows in women who are loose,
but not in those who aren’t, I’ve heard,
although I really can’t be sure,
because I don’t care for the booties
of women who’re uptight and pure,
not even if they’re stunning beauties,
preferring those who’re eager to
respond to me as soon as I
have shown I’m eager to pursue
their booties just like Levy’s rye
that I like eating with the seeds
of caraway, though with a choice
I’d rather have the booty beads
of juice of women who rejoice
far more than any bread that’s sliced,
or even, for that matter, bagels;
it’s either due to my Zeitgeist
or some antithesis of Hegel’s.

Inspired by a lecture I gave this afternoon to about fifty residents of the Midnight Mission in downtown Los Angeles, explaining to them the perils of HIV infection and the various ways they might contract the HIV virus. Having listed blood, semen and mother’s milk, I was asked, “What about booty juice? ” At first I did not understand the question, which had to be repeated to me three times, but once I did I exclaimed: “Oh, booty juice! ” And for the next two minutes I was applauded like a rock star. It was either the way I pronounced the word or the expression on my face. For the record, I gave non-menstrual booty juice a clean bill of health as far as HIV is concerned.

1/4/07