Just Like Something Written By Chaucer Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Put the spear in me,
As I would put in the tongue;
And watch as whole cities pour out
Of men who wear antlers to bed,
Who were cuckolded and made to run around
Feathered and spitted upon
Twelve days before Halloween;

How bucolic her ass looked, sticking out of
The kitchen’s window; it could not be denied
As it bobbed up and down, like a steamy plum
For Thom to plumb with his thumb;
Just like something written by Chaucer.

A day before the hurricane, the chickens ran around
Until hypnotized,
And we went to the super-store and bought a forty-eight
Inch t.v., and a fichus, because they were out of water;
The cashier said we could enter a raffle,
But I asked her why bother, and when we got home
We plugged in the tomb and waited for the house
To fill with laughter.

After class was over, she cycled home,
Her forehead peppered, sweaty with loam,
Her hair curled by the wind’s daughter; but she didn’t
See me, as I watched from the top of the palm tree,
Making love to the very same daughter,

And then at night, she ate quite a bite,
While I watched the bike-thieves unsolder the wheels
From the spokes, they stole from us folks,
As she cooked the eggs like I taught her;

But even as I swum, she let in her chum, and they made
Love like a hooked bobber; half in and half out,
They see-sawed about, while I bit my thumb as I aught’r;
After he left, she fixed up her dress, and laid-out the table
That I bought her; but I was not ready for bed
With that over-used head, so I just laid back and
Kissed the wind’s daughter;
Who unbuttoned her blouse and opened her house,
Just like something written by Chaucer.