For Your Most Beautiful And Next In Line Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The moons winnows; oh my god I’ve seen it done
And now I have to spit or I should choke;
Sharon, why do you write to me of these things:
Sharon, I am not beautiful:
Sharon, I am all alone, and the traffic proceeds; they are the
Perfectly placed butterflies,
And I have plenty of the apple juice inside of me:
Sharon, your first daughter is named Sabine:
When shall you have your second daughter: your womb is burning;
It is yearning like the spitoon of a kiln all afire;
You known that it is, and I am hardly enough beautiful for you:
Sharon…. Sharon, what are you are doing:
You are hardly patriotic, but Sharon who are you; while I have so many
Fireworks to panhandle, what I am doing for you:
You don’t give a damn about our capitol, so by our gods what am I doing;
Sharon, I just want to swim in your Shadow:
And, Sharon, I am so sick for you; I am a cricket mouthing off for
Disney World,
And, Sharon, it is alright to be mean; but, Sharon, otherwise I love you,
And otherwise I drive my truck around for you, but the beautiful men
Have already built their irredeemable castles so far up for you,
And what am I doing otherwise, but riding bareback and scarred
While the folk artists sing for you and paint your glowing windows,
And you nurse the first of your hot born butterflies, clicking your tongue
Your bosoms jubilant and awaiting for your most beautiful and
Next in line.