Tongue In Cheek - Poem by Robert Rorabeck

So the world heaps up the joy for its grotesque
Figurines,
The cowboys and Indians fighting again in the sand,
As another day proceeds;
The wind brooms the faces of tombs, and mothers go out of their
Rooms to go shopping in the yellow nude;
And they all have children who safely sing,
And who swing so safely on the safe, safe swings:
While the world spins in a perfect arc,
And the frogs go chirping after dark down to the dark, dark prominence
Of the slow canal:
And it goes creeping, creeping softly how it goes creeping past
The bedrooms for another week,
And all the wives kiss their husbands tongue in cheek.