Some of My Best Friends
are shot through like Swiss cheese with diseases.
I've written them all letters of recommenbortion,
leaving the pay to the order of blank blank for
convenience's sake. Whatever's easier for you,
I tell them, and I'm sincere. When it rains, we
get gray, and we sing the gray song ("Gray is
a color between black and white/when it's right,
babe, you know it/oh gray") in fey, gray voices
and graying hair--but hey! This is supposed to be
a fun poem that's fun--full of sunshine and tenniss
hoes and Michael J. Foxes! Will any ingratiating
Canadian do? Here they come now, crawling in
on their bellies, clenching icy northern knives
in their teeth. Such haircuts! My God! And how
they love scallops! Why, some of my best friends
are scallops (the rest, as you see by my shoulder,
are parrots)!
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