— attributed to Eric of Normandy
(that most timeless political mover & shaker)
above all else
in terms of
‘tit for tat,’
each has to
decide if the
contents or
latter-day
content
ment of
his tit (or
two) is
at least
precisely
enough
against
that of
her tat
(as numer
ous as they
likely are)
to be ever
adequate
in armament,
(& alarm!),
knocked
out a few
x’s (=
times,
and
xxx’s)
weath
ered
intent
ly (pre
ferably
in the
more
lasci
vious of
history’s
harems,
hotspots
& on
sens),
green
ly (as
they
say)
slaugh
ghter
ed by
most
every
mem
ber of
various
battalions
(world over),
dumped in
to every
fogbank’
dank barn’s
horse-drains,
and even
(with a
smirk of
mortality
and the de
crepit de
ceit of mor
ality) dunk
ed by the
troubad
ours at
the side
party to
the side
party to
the sec
ond fif
th prin
cess ga
la with
curling
tongues
that are
arched &
twisted
skyward
like the
tails of
pigs, if
only to
be end such
baudy his
tory still
there,
still in
tact (a few
of which
even with
a chiv
alrous
sense
of entr'
acte,
when
all can
be retold
artfully,
canon
ically,
in rally
ing cries
by the
players
wearing
wreaths
and/or on
saddles,
sipping
in saloons,
at emcee
micro
phones,
or at dinner
tables across
the universe,
anecdotally
by spouses
and erst
while
spouses.
But as for my tit,
it’s head
ing out
directly,
undercover,
defiant, to
discover re
sounding de
feat on yet
another other
wise drab day
(oh, the hours;
oh, the suburbs!)
without the loss
of its singular
compatriot
nor the snub
of any of the
noses in the front
row or two (or
three) of darkly
lit theaters,
sleazy saunas
and semi-tented
beneath metro
politan free
ways here
and there.
Tit. For
that.
Amen.
