what to wear when eyed by a blind bull

for constipated glory

for a monarch who just can’t shit

a cunning cannonball smashes home then rolls around a little bit

till

striking ten cows and a snotty little pig for the king

through the white smoke you can make a siren wail about anything

a sexy song, oh muse, sing to me now

of your man dismembered

of your ocean burned

of your queen’s throne upturned

to please a hard-sceptered king of men and his little ol’ friend

pea shooter in hand, big goose in sight

but he’s too drunk to hit it try as he might

how can he show his face in public now, his hands clutching nothing bleeding or even half dead?

sing, muse, of how he turns around and shoots his friend instead