Sprawled across the weary table
With its worm-holes and buboes,
Bruised by moment and battered by measure.
You lie there, accusing me of everything.
Oozing, dripping, reeking,
I spy on you through my microscope.
Self-importance dribbles out your
Putrid pores. It grows to a bubble,
Then slows to a pop.
I know that it takes a real man to whistle in the rain;
You were right when you told me that.
But I cannot trust you.
Sometimes it is sunny when it is cold,
Sometimes tension gets rolled,
Rolled up and balled
But I just blink bewildered.
I understand you, frog,
But not them.