Spring-Time's Flaxen Orgy Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My imperfections are stilted for the muse:
The deficient vocabularies
I am still learning to sing:
The airy duct my betters use,
To come and go bare-assed in the burning sky:
They don’t even think of modesty,
For their poesy’s diction excuses anything:
Their lines are without modicum of fallacy,
Even though their phalluses are still
The shriveled earthy things of mortality,
It matters not;
For the phallus of their opulent lines
Is better than equine;
And they pollinate the learned sororities
Like randy studs wild in spring-time’s flaxen orgy-
Each receptive woman in studious bud,
Bare-bosomed with horn-rimmed glasses:
They fellatio the masters like bucolic maidens
Filling the wooden pails with milk
Spilt from mouth to mouth,
As if in no hurry to extinguish the blaze-
Turning the hidden stacks into a bullpen
Where I imagined the published poets go
One by one, for book signings and other
Expressions of gratitude:
Greeted in privacy by the blushingly fair complexions
Of their most grateful muses,
The willing paramours of the unblemished rhyme.