Nothing But Rhyme Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In the land of bolts and blood,
I saw my old girl riding stud:

He was fast, and he was lean;
Her hips took to the shape of a gumball machine-

I worked all day and blew up the tent,
While they rode around squealing like rust,
Paying the rent,

In the desert their scent was coy but professional,
And the dirt around them was something sensational;

I got their game smack dab in my face,
While they continued braying the two headed caucus race,

But what a thing to behold, the lights growing mold,
And around me a certain patina:

The dimmest Jim, and uncertain John,
The procession of devils and shopping malls may care to live
On,

Though without a dropp of water in my throat,
I thought of her lips as a rosy red boat,
And circled around them as if my tongue were a serpent
In a medieval moat,

But she was not there, for not long did she care;
Tore the curtains, let the windows lay bare,

Like open wounds, processions of apertures curling divine,
She galloped away, I have nothing but rhyme....