Climaxing The Rhyme Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Slit my wrist on sabotage-
Just learning how to feel- The words are
Real or they’re not; they won’t
Make you young, or feed you hot twat;
I really think that they cannot,
But they’re my fun anyways: Better than baseball,
My words, the game,
Sluiced enough with rum they can give you
A day job out picking fruit,
To whistle to the girls speeding along on their
Route;
And, yes, I’ve loved- loved airplanes and dogs,
Love the girls spinning, spinning Cadillacs from frogs:
But it gets cold here restive both day and night,
Spinning my words and smoking my pipe:
I cannot remember the last time it was I’ve read
A good book,
And even when a really good poet dies, he overshot
By consumptive actors, the baby-faced paramours
That I know that I’m not;
But I find myself singing here anyways, my fingers and
Toes tasting the grave,
Needing to shave: And the girls who love their
Athletes are spinning in time,
Hooked altogether a mighty fine catch on a fine
Fishing line, making an easy mobile for guys on their
Line;
And I find myself rhyming, rhyming for food-
And I could start giving the Christian names for the girls
For whom I’m casting but that would be just rude;
Instead, I’ll try to wrap up this thing,
Burning with a match and a squirt of gasoline;
That seems much like the best thing to do,
To smile sincerely hearted and burn down this zoo;
And meet her under the bleachers if she’s got enough time,
And caress her so that she climaxes this rhyme.