The Mountain Of The Verdant Rose Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You treated her like sh#t,
And you’ll be buried next to her:
But, I ate your wife’s pus#y better than
You’ll ever eat your wife’s pus#y-
And this is just another way of believing that there
Will still be airplanes in the sky,
Remaining like paper snowflakes, or like whatever
Sort of make believe death you believe in:
And we will get along, selling fireworks until
Summer ends, and then it will be Christmas
And we will sell then too: we will sell, we will sell,
And the moon will get up and shine:
Whatever it does- just you know that it will be good,
And it will be beautiful,
And whatever god you happen to believe in will get up
And save us in time- galloping, purple throated,
Singing to the choir
To the horse thieves and the stewardesses:
Then it will be a dusty Christmas but at least it will be there,
And we will sing our newest brides into her newest coffins:
And we will sing that way for so long,
That they will listen,
And the fires burn their way straight through the mountain:
And listen: listen, as they are climbing up:
Soon they will be there, and enjoy the summit of the word:
Open breasted, bloody lipped, busted nosed:
And then they will have to go down too:
Singing, singing, singing- just an echo:
They will have to go down too:
Singing, singing, singing, about this their joy, and then this
Their open wound- their open coffin, the mountain of the verdant
Rose, open lipped into the dirt,
As wide spread as a child into these woods without parents
To suppose them in memory:
And singing, singing, singing.