POEM OF LIMITED PURPOSE

The manicurist maintains the proper nose temperature by agitating the dead.

The eggs resemble your porter who labors in the dossier of his poems.

Serpents vein their way into the heart.

A musical soul burns in my love for the Museum of Death.

Campion (1567-1620) and Cervantes (1958-1970) are both easy companions, one born meat, the other
a man's shot.

The royal pony is the myth of the return.

Fish seducer close your mouth office.
***

A 'draft.' I have no recollection of writing this poem, but discovered it one afternoon as I stumbled about on behalf of another purpose entirely. Hence, the title.

America's Favorite Hemorrhoid Cream

a

Swivel it my way
I mean coin
Or coins
Plural is genius my turnips
Gone to far away hills
Dirt on this here map you aren't
Saying it like they said it would be
I'm the disappoyted King of Malaria

b

No matter, cat
We dun brung groggy you home on a hand basket
You kin bite if you like
You kin bate in the lake
I don't care
We all friends here
Killers aint welcome

c

I warn't borne here but I learned
The language I learned the language
Of health and crime I learned
How to praise her pubic kite
You know the famous slogan
I wrote that one I wrote it:
America's Favorite Hemorrhoid Cream
That was me that done that
That totally owned it
Stone cold disowned it