The Muse Has Hit You, Has It Not? Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Presupposing we put a ban on all that’s holy,
And the mud mucks up the land from shoulder to shoulder,
In a final and messy epoch less cohesive and malleable
Than clay,
And W.H. Auden sat around bare-assed in rain slicks,
With the jowls of a gamy dog,
And gave little girls broken petals, with the sun embarrassed
By noon with nothing left to do,

For I have read from all the Jews and homosexuals,
And sat practicing suppositions under the crucifixion,
Listening to airy farts whistle from their stigmata-
Leaving blank the voter's registration,
Recalling, instead, how you sit away from me, downcast;
Though, perhaps, jovial,
Not disproved yet by science,
Watching the ice melt straight into your liquor.