There I was
squatting on the sand.
It was Saturday,
(Sunday I fill it vitally with love;
Monday I add hope and fear;
Tuesday, two things rued and
half a pint consomme' of the blues;
Wednesday, I stir in motive, flensed,
mixed chopped greens and
fine ground teleological ends;
Thursday, spices, fold knead beat;
and Friday cast it
into the boiling fat vat,
just like everyone does)
And so there I was,
squatting on the sand
eating my heart out
of my own hand, when
some guy in a bow tie
with a sunburned meridian
parting his fine dark
hair in the middle,
a mad dog frock coat
and a walking stick
called me friend
and, taking a notebook
from his pocket, inquired
concerning ethics.
Now, I am an ethicist
by trade, true,
but it was my day off
and I was at my private repast,
the savor biling my mouth
at the rude intrusion
so, as politely as I could,
I said "Fuck off, Jack."
(cf.)