High-Class Stuff (Censored) Poem by Robert Rorabeck

That less than average b-tch can go straight to h-ll
Well decorated in the cheaper ancestors, floating on
Their lips:
Straight down with all their bills and catalogues
And name brand puff: Let the chipper scalawags
Walk the plank or tie them to the northbound tresses.

We could sacrifice paper airplanes and shoot them
Across the canal watch as the upturned noses crinkle
With the red holly, or we don’t have to do any of that
At all: We don’t have to go to class, or even stay on
The ground. The palm tree’s flute is an easy lift above
Into another filament, like the lighter portions of the sea.

Say, now we are here. Smoke and sing quietly.
Those aren’t the rules, but it is what you do
and if they don’t like us, give them
A bird that will sing a song right up their a-ses,
Their little extra chromosome a-ses, because look at us
Like prayer flags, like real highfalutin swags. If they don’t
Like why we’re here, why we can just nod off. We can
Be real crocodilian and watch as the buses pirouette like
Great yellow dragon flies, and then recite from books that
They’ve banned, the well said pornographie$.

We can show our digs to snakes and compare.
Or we can just mouth off to prospectors trying to steal our
Rocks, but

Enough said,
Give the others a shove down to the roadside and point them
The way home.
Give them a spotty red handkerchief for their stick,
So they can truck and roam.
Then its just us, yes sir, and the memories of
Her shampooed hair whipping as she jogged around and round in her
Little thing, like auburn tinsel for a switch
Whipping up confections, her legs stirring
Two scoops of vanilla ice-cream with the suds.
Yes, who cares about what they said-
That was some real high class fireworks- That was the stuff.