Announcers leave their home's
just to rap kinesthetic, wrap their
tongues about a Herculean
wonderland of swoosh, crack,
thump, whap, pop, a boisterous
chorus of blubbering ballyhoo.
Mmmm-my he’s the most human,
human to ever turn a neck, blink,
butter a pancake and blah de
blah. Oh my! He’s got two arms
and a couple of legs!
Can you handle it?
You’ve got to be there
to feel the DNA.
Can suck down a six-pack
in a single breath.
National home creosote remover
has ‘em standing in the aisles.
And what a pre-game show!
Puts tar on a bat, hand in a glove, feet on the ground . . .
How does he done, did, do it?
Former womb resident. He’s out-a-there!
Now makes ‘em howl with wood and leather.
And the creosote in his chimney? You try and find some.
He’s kissing babies, climbing into men’s wombs, succor, suck or excel.
He’s manned the heart breach under sagging metaphysical sigh.
He’s, he’s . . . the Guy who’s replaced the proverbial why
with summer wizardry. The eternal gentleman
of swoosh, crack, thump, whap, pop.