The Drowning Christmas Tree Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I drink liquor to a god who just doesn’t care,
Who is dumber than me:
All the dragons you know are lazy, saturnine, insouciant
And unpatriotic:
The night is galvanized against them and all of the sweet young
Dears are leaning the calligraphies of algebra:
In Oregon the lumberjacks cut wood:
They work a dangerous job and then they come together and sleep
Just like the naiads of lesbians in their pool where I
Suffered through undergraduate training in a toon-ville
Where my venal muse still lives:
Erin, Erin: every night gets cold without you, and this is how
I’ve poisoned my soul because I am too weakened to live wholly
Without you,
And even the Queen’s English only has so many possibilities without
You;
And the night is getting up and walking out on its brighter lover,
And the moon just doesn’t know what to do:
I am pigheaded and lonely, but I still walk with strange girls over the
Upraised and religious bridges across the intercostals;
And you have found your new man, and I am proud;
And I am lonely and I am wondering even and when you will
Ever find me,
Like the most beautiful of presents who has always been waiting for
You underneath the drowning Christmas tree.