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.