The Waistland

I wallowed wary as a wit whose turns of phrase aren’t winning

and, losing sleep, had to admit I’d fallen and been sinning

I wiggled wooly as a mammoth, mute but bright of eye

abominators Jesu damneth, wheelchair-bound or spry

I whimpered worthless as a womb unknown by any fetus

My mate I then began to groom. Bad hygiene won’t deplete us

I smoothed her fur. I licked my wounds, though they were not delicious

The mischief — ours! — was like baboons’, unkind but not malicious

Chuck buries his late missus in a corner of the garden

and drives across state linotype the teen Pierre was cardin’

The legislature throws a fit. The media’s ballistic

They seek a swarthy culprit whose fibrosis isn’t cystic

I wept unwanted as a wart invested in self-loathing

The ball once more was in the court of those in better clothing

My own rags were in no way glad. I looked too cut and pasted

My shirt designed for someone’s dad, my trousers too high-waisted

I warned The Warden not to win at poker so relentless

“To those without olfaction,” he ordained, “the world is scentless.”

We paint His face disgraceful hues to scandalize the pious

and sodomize those lacking shoes. Big shock that all decry us!

I wandered wobbly as a croon beluga starry skyscrape

and whimpered wantonly festoon the beauty that our eyes rape