In Your Modes Of Lackadaisical Use Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Blue as your eyes are they only go so far in:
They only provide so much shelter for your man and your
Children:
They go burning like the tinsels of fire blown from an
Un concealed fan;
Your oranges are luscious for the frying pan:
And even if I am not your man, your lips were as good as
Salted ham,
And with my body in my hand, I can fling my self up into
The deceptive riches of your ruled ceiling,
Like a paper airplane altogether with a harem of plastic stewardesses
All in the full body of their conformed dress,
The night your last cigarette, and my words your best reason
For opening your eyes to the hibernations of your family:
They go weeping straight into your shallow abyss
Just like the tearless bodies of crocodiles and of Indians,
Opening up their grottos of casinos in you;
And you are busily reciprocating with them in your modes of
Lackadaisical use.