French Magician Poem by gershon hepner

In a cave soft-lipped with fur
fingered prestidigateur,
feeling somewhat generous,
having scaled Mons Veneris.
“I expect to be a hit.
Little men that rhyme with wit
will be touched now by my finger.
For a moment let me linger,
till I feel the small man harden.
Then I’ll leave and your pardon,
for, though I’m a French magician,
once I feel your inhibition
coming back I have to banish
thoughts of little men who vanish.”

2/7/05