This Little Song Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Tank tops and tabernacles,
I dream of Michelle Obama:
I didn’t do anything wrong- it’s been a good some
Years since I smoked hashes down in the cardboard
Crepuscule of Florida’s nocturne,
And that was the last time I did anything very wrong:
My face looks like it could go wrong forever:
It can never take charge again, nor
Somnambulate through Shakespeare;
And I wonder if I turned away, would she let me hold
Her hand through the rains of the courtyard if we were
The only two buckaroos left in school:
And right now Romero is dreaming of blow jobs as
He guards the pumpkins and I get loosely drunk on
Something: Cabarnet Sauvignon;
It’s not as good is whiskey, but at least it’s something,
Though I wish it could be your forbidden tongue
Which instead helped me write this little song.