How Little All Of That Must Cost Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Did I impress your husband with
My occidental thoughts;
Did you share yourself with him,
Through my words;
And why are you eyes now green-
You are well published under your mountain,
And so you should have no fear of being picked up
Alone in my sea and crafted into
Something you always hoped that you should
Not be;
Enveloping, little fairies housed in sunken
Cantelopes;
The world is a strange world enveloped in a stage;
And you know not what I know what I should
Do,
But I run through the darkness and smell your
Perfume on the jaded fingertips of all these
Wayward airplanes,
Like silver cones shaken awaken from the lips of
Early morning waitresses;
And tomorrow I think that I should like to finally be
Laid:
And I am all of one number, and I paint by her
Sweet taint and tell the world of passing cars and wolves
Of what we should have to sell,
So that tomorrow if I should have to die, at least she
Should know with quiet certain how little all of that
Must cost.