The Thunderbirds Of Winos Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Metallurgy of camel dung,
I hold court in unmowed fields-
I soliloquy the broken glass of
The thunderbirds of winos.
Sitting down to lie, I eat bologna
And mayonnaise,
I make love to apple snails.
This is how I’ve done it, to settle the games
Of beauty before afternoon gets too late
Even while forgetting those better lines.
Where there are no trees to shade the podium,
Young virgins pop and fizz
While I break the wings of a dove.