We’ve got to work it out,
Says the exquisite
Drip of a thing perched on
Lady Madonna’s arm.

He’s got great dewy eyes that so look like
Glassy, dripping plums.
He knows he’s nearly number one
In the batting order of the heart -

Whose whirling gears stop a few dollars short
Of independence. He knows that she shifts like magma:
Imprecise, coarse and coursing,
Evaporating the dew right out of him

Till he’s a shrively shrip of a prune.
But she’s got the corkscrew legs of a woman
With only padded cares and he’s feeling
Distinctly uncorked right now.

She’s got hips that swing like a metronome
As if no scrawling mess of humanity
Ever slunk out from the over-ripe
Fruit-basket of her womb. As if

No rich, red, honest, aging magma
Ever made a home in the hollows of her heart.
As if nothing ever flowed so clean as
The cent spent on his latest rent,

Give ma(g)ma a kiss, baby.