This poem's gonna make you do the watusi
This poem's gonna make you piss in the jacuzzi 
This poem's gonna make you drop down in a fit
This poem's gonna make you feel like stir-fried shit
This poem's gonna make your bones brittle and cold
This poem's gonna make you feel 98 years old 
This poem's gonna tell everyone all your dirty thoughts
This poem's gonna know for how much you can be bought
This poem's a maverick, gun-toting psychopath
This poem's a queer ghost full of grey wrath
This poem's American as apple-flavored pie
This poem's a blue and a black and a purple-pink eye
This poem's a kick in the pearly white teeth
This poem's a bastard, a bitch, and a queef
This poem's gonna stop rhyming on the next line and
this poem's gonna toss and turn at night thinking about you and
this poem’s gonna wonder how to make it work and buy two tickets to paradise and sneak you out of the house, through the garden, past the guards, and you and this poem are gonna run away together into the moonlit prairie and get lost in the tall grass and call each other by secret names and fall to the dirt laughing and drift off to sleep gazing into each other’s eyes, holding hands, and wake up with smiles because that's what 
poetry is good for, 
if anything at all.