The Lusty Young Poem by Robert Rorabeck
The Lusty Young
I imagine she used to be
A stewardess
But now she just floats around
The Christmas tree
And takes her top off
As I drink rum.
The penumbras of the ceiling fan
Moat our holidays,
And we don’t make a sound;
And yet we move
Just as cunningly as bush-hunters
With our pantomimes
Of the lusty young.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Topic(s) of this poem: christmas
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8/29/2026 4:57:33 AM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
