Hark, all you lovely witches
sirens on the rocks of matrimony,
cast ashore as flotsam,
unwitting fuel for your beacon fire,
I’ve crawled high upon your beach
then past the desert of your ice
to where you live when you’re off duty,
past your flattery, your nice
and seeking respite and relief,
open the cabinet of your medicine,
where you put your make-up on,
the mirror where you try on faces,
and imitate their voices.
I root and rummage inside
for remedy to cure
a very personal disease,
well known to bitches,
and finding nothing better
settle for some novocaine
to apply within my britches.
This moving hand now having written
this declaration as legal poetry
will now take up a hammer and a nail
and proceed to County Seat
to publish it upon the Courthouse door.
638 ®Copyright 1974 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.