All the babies were behaving as if they were moons,
Crawling out of seashells, stuffed blind as turkeys.
They smelt of the flat fever of love, with chancres
Born of Vanilla Bean WY, or Sewer Stop AK.We brought them up to believe in wombats fed on
Shroud thighs, with crowds of crying turtles, &
Peasant armies of hymn singing, drug-ridden geckos,
All singing "Om Mani Padme Hum, Om Mani."In our town we have widows watering their proud
Buttocks, witches who would let us off, without
Consultation, in Pork Chop MO or Dog Stool IL...
All twelve of us at the depot with our bent ankles
And a blind (and healthy) love for sweet waffles.They say we were part of the Breadfruit Conspiracy
Out of Tootie Fruit ME because we petitioned the gods
(Gods with marble eyes) to stop smelling up Newton's
Third Law of Generations with love. We begged them
To leave us singing "Om Mani Padme Hum, Om Mani."In conclusion, I should like to report that our brains
Are now pickled & dried with love, & are thus weighted
In units of filial darkness. Our watches separate time
From space (in planetary feet) & thus put us on the
Very last train to Bugger Bean OH or Assgrasp LA,
All singing "Om Mani Padme Hum, Om Mani."