On Friday, October twenty-seventh I woke up in the middle of the night, groggy and suffering from the dual aches of a cold and donated blood, when I was suddenly possessed by the spirit of Orenda Winchester and wrote this poem in an hour. It's probably my "finest" work.

Seldom have I come across

a creature any finer

her features would remain unseen by

all but gypsy or diviner.

Her majesty in golden curls

a symphony worthy of a muse.

Her delicate frame stands as proof

of muscles scarcely in use.

Never before have I seen a

more luscious set of hips

with casual, dignified swings,

and a shape that can sink ships.

She gracefully turns on her step

and I am sent all aquiver.

Surely facing such beauty face-on

would bring the heavens closer hither . . .

Gasp!

Her countenance is a fiend!

A sickeningly twisted goblin!

I am in awe that so many piercings

can fit on a single noggin.

Her body is horrid entropy

to the Hells and back she's been.

A stressed shirt nary hides a gut

that bares the fruit of countless chins.

Her insipidness cannot be measured

on a scale, graph or guage;

there is hair where hair ought not be

Are breasts meant to sag at her age?

I turn away in horror,

unable to bear the sight

and grieve for the lost hours

of this eve's sleepless night.

You can take it as a humbling lesson

or "abomination" defined.

But the only thing I learned today is

that beauty looks better from behind.