Bret R. Crabrooke (04/10/1978 / Berrien Springs)

The drink has my mind in a pickle where I don’t
Care;
It is easier looking at myself, and thinking on my dreams.
This is like being in the eye of a hurricane
Where no one else cares,
Or is around to hear my lesser efficiencies:
Girls who once road bicycles no longer wear shorts.
They’re houses are as tall as some minor resorts;
But other girls aren’t girls anymore, according to Ovid,
They are birds- Birds who girls could never compare too,
And girls in the sea too- Lost like entire cavalries
Of conquistadors out lunching
With Jesus and got drenched in the sun shower,
Made to do laps in their backyard pool- These girls are cool.
You could spend all day long thinking about where the girls
Are hiding,
And where they’re diving, their rumps are wreathing to the
Convenient store. Younger girls are more beautiful,
They have more to explore,
But the older the girl the more luxurious, the finer the carpet,
The wealthier the habitat and more vibrant the jungle,
The deadlier the snatch- Girls whose houses follow them in the shadows
For some ways, and girls who in public fountains like to
Bathe- Girls in chorus lines all ready for bed,
And girls who bob, bob, bob, from giving so much head:
Girls, who make my tummy warm like wine,
Girls, girls, who metamorphoses are so fine;
And my muses, girls who wash each other with garden houses.
And before I go to sleep tonight in my wild track of fright,
Would like one or two to come to me,
Girl genies who carry their lamps on their ass&s like racing snails,
Girls who mount sand upon their t^ts with bright colored pales.
Girls, girls, girls- I’ve lost my senses.
Girls, girls, girls- up on the fences, clapping and swishing their
Tails;
I’ll turn you over in my rhyming bed and twine your curls,
And whisper lusterous and mirages all whose names
Carry themselves on the long, shaven legs, the bicycle swirls
Of girls, girls, girls.