The Nursery Rhyme To Which He Was Over And Done With Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I have no more reason to live that isn’t
Alliterative and done out,
Already remembered and ejaculated on some
Green space in my mind,
Spilling out like a butchered cow tongue
All the girls who didn’t deserve
The cheap bouquets I’ve thrust to them,
Like cutting their throats and stuffing them full
Of busy incense:
And how the worker bees are busy making honey
From such wasted and nonsensical declivities.
Luckily, most of that sorority didn’t know how
I pined from them from wetted graveyards while
They made love to their firefighters and mayhem,
Or they didn’t care,
And are amusing themselves with my uncle
In a collage of speed boats;
And it has been a long time since I’ve received
The praises of shop class, or watched her spinning
Amputated in hospitals,
And it keeps going around like this until I am too
Dizzy not to feel beautiful,
But then I always have to take time to think,
To stop the swing, and remember where I buried the
Pornographies in the roots of palmettos;
I have to hate myself and try to not remember why it
Is she isn’t calling but once every six months,
To appease myself by propositioning the homeless dwarfs,
What I am becoming,
The silent absence on the pages of a useless harem,
That great leggy sorority done hyperventilating and kicking
Their skirts up for me,
Done spinning their frilly parasols on the lacquered stage, and
Gone to bed with more genteel members of our species,
Time for me to be alone and to look out for fires
Atop of mountains, like Jack was doing before his usual suicide,
While the candle was burning still awaiting the
Nursery rhyme to which he was over and done with.