In The Presence Of This Usually Cowardly Lion Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I make a beehive out of the best that
Are nothing;
I’ve drunken all of the liquor and my teeth feel
Again like they should be the stuff sewn again
To feel the resurrection 0f your friends;
And why have you rejected the resilience of your dogs;
Why don’t you speak of them anymore-
Why it is the same reason why I do not speak or resemble
My own face,
Why I cant speak or say better words for it;
I want to touch myself to your bugle, the way so many boys yet
Do;
I want my hair to turn more gray and fall like cataracts over your
Shoulders,
And now you should know that you shall never be anymore
Universally popular; and yet you are right:
You are my starlet and I yet swing for you; and yet
Who are you doing, and you who are yet who I still love,
But my heart is still empty and broken from the love
You would not shave off the bust of your infinite ice globes;
And wouldn’t you like for me to come up and see,
But I am afraid that you would feel degraded to be in the presence
Of this usually cowardly lion.