Twice On Sundays Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The professors can live forever.
I will eat her hymen; I don’t care to know nothing about
Flowers, ’
About flowers, except I guess I suppose she has one;
And she makes love to the bartender,
Under the feet of dolphin,
But I guess I suppose they will have to both awaken
Surprised In their graves of Sundays,
Smelling themselves,
Smelling themselves, I suppose; as the week carries on;
And the week jaunts like knights on a quest,
As my mother counts the money, as I can’t sleep,
Which is best;
And the days thunder, and the days parade,
As all my muses as absolutely pretty,
As they absolutely get laid by boys,
By boys prettier than me; in their coffins all week singing
Like ice-cream trucks,
And twice, and twice on Sundays.