Villanelle: I'll be Fine

I fell down the shaft of a diamond mine.

I was pushed, and it all came out in court.
If that’s your only problem, you’ll be fine.

Go shove it where the sun don’t shine,
I said, appealing to their heart,
and they pushed me down the diamond mine.

Which way do the hairs on your wrist incline?
Don’t bet that way, you’ll lose your shirt.
If that’s your only problem, you’ll be fine.

But someone else has drunk the wine
they left for me—it was a right smart
disappointment—my dry diamond mine!

I held the tip of the rope, unspooled the twine.
The bottom of a mine smells like a fart.
If that’s your only problem, you’ll be fine.

I was the last sentient being left alive
when the rest of 'em sailed through the starry port
and I fell down the shaft of a diamond mine.
If that’s your only problem, you’ll be fine.

To Be or Not to Be Cool or Sloppy

Here’s an idea for our act: you be competent and cool, and I’ll be warm and sloppy.

We’ll compliment each other, like Dick and Tommy Smothers.

Because, sloopy as I am, I can be intense. I try to bring it, yes, but everyone can see, I’m sloppy.

You’re intense too—you shut your eyes and sway back and forth on stage. You’re very accurate, and very loud.

Our performances are a mixed bag. Here’s the deal: you either have to play loud in bars, and have the audience sort of ignore you (it seems),

or you have to connect more intimately in coffeehouse venues, where being loud and stagy doesn’t help.

Now think of a poet promoting their book. The book is the cool thing—the performance can be, and usually is, desultory.

The poet just says, here’s one of the poems in my cool book. Then people buy the book—or not, but some do, and some will even read it.

Point is, the actual poem performances are not important.

The cool bar musician must be more engaging than a poet with a book. If they’re not, the performance falls flat.

The poet’s performance can’t fall flat because it was never intended to be engaging.

OK, we’ve had the cool bar music performer and the poet with a book. Last, we have the sloppy-warm coffeehouse performer.

In a bar, or as a poet with a book, you have an audience because you’re cool—people will listen to you (or shout over you, or zone you out), whatever you play or read.

As for the coffeehouse performer, I’m already afraid they’ll be too smarmy. They’re sloppy like a big sloppy kiss.

So what do you need to be a performer? You need some interesting material, and you need to perform it in an engaging way.

“Engaging” means respectful of the audience’s need for two things, one positive, one negative: to be entertained, and not to be put upon.

Paradoxically, the audience wants both to be touched and to be left alone.

To be touched by someone you don’t know is yucky.

That’s where music helps. The audience can listen to the music and be touched unawares.

So if you’re going to perform music in a coffeehouse, be sloppy enough to be warm, but be sure to play and sing accurately, so that you’re enjoyable.

If you’re going to perform poems anywhere at all, be sure to bring a harmonium, as Ginsberg did.

Spanish Girl

A red mite ran across my paper just now,

and I smashed it with the fourth finger
of my writing hand. Robert Frost wrote a poem about

a similar bug. My mite left a red streak
on the page, just to the right of the word the.
The mite was liquified into dye.

There wasn’t much to the mite besides
fluid in the first place, kind of like
the ink in my pen, blah.

So, of course, the mite
is now my writing, with all the apropos
delicious dire concomitant trimmings—

the streak of scarlet at the end
of Carmen—white sheet raised
to receive the flung blood.

Frost had something sagacious to say
about the least display of intelligence on a page.
But I can’t stop thinking of that Spanish girl.

White Castle Villanelle

I’ll tell you what I want to eat today,

and I know where to get ‘em too.
Breakfast sliders—what I crave!

I’ll tell you what again—I bet I’d save
more than just a buck or two
if I ate breakfast sliders every day.

You tell me that I don’t behave
in public places and embarrass you
just by eating what I crave,

so you always want to go to the Good Egg.
If I’ve had one egg, I’ve had a few—
at least a couple every day—

remembering days when I would play
tennis with a hangover—I’d puree
two eggs in milk, raw. I CRAVED!

Listening to what my gut says—
Dammit, here they come again!!!
I’ll tell you what I want to eat today.
Breakfast sliders—what I crave!

Breastplate Villanelle

Watching myself wait,
in love with myself, as always,
waiting for the blood to abate.

Thinking of St. Patrick’s Breastplate,
sitting with my head in a daze,
watching myself wait.

What is blood’s level in its normal state?
Why should I settle for anything less?—
waiting for my blood to abate.

Christ with me as my blood passes through the gates
of the heart, to cop a phrase—
watching myself wait,

listening for such pounding on the walls of fate—
senses full of the Oneness, blood in our eyes.
How may the blood abate

when we can finally hold each other’s weight
(just a bit abashed by the surprise!)?—
Watching myself wait,
waiting for the blood to abate.

Villanelle: Microwaved Plantain

How do you get heat out of a banana?—

sitting waiting for your plantain to cool.
Banana-bana fo-fana.

How can you taste it when you don't wanna,
not sure you have the correct tool
for extracting heat from a banana?

The ocean sands are sweating manna,
and all you do is stand and drool,
Tony-bony-mo-man-a.

The joint is swinging like a hammer.
You pitch forward like an inspired mule,
roaring, I’ve burned my tongue on my banana!

And I’m your sweet cabana-
boy, baby. Please don’t be cruel,
Anna Anna bo-banna!

And what a fine display of glam-a!
You're the exception that proves every rule
for how to get heat out of a banana!
Banana-bana fo-fana!

Letting the Rhymes Write 'Em

*

So which ideas will it be
for rhymes? It’s always a surprise.
The ineffable pops up like serpent eyes.
The train arrives, whichever way

it’s headed. The door bangs shut.
It’s hard enough to put up with all the crap—
now you’re not even allowed to take a nap,
so you stand and scratch your butt

and wonder when this dreadful party ends.
The only interesting people are threatening
to leave, so you rush off to get more wine,

but when you come back again, your friends are all gone,
not lingering behind for the resentment testing.
Or you never can find your way home, ol’ pal o’ mine.

*

The animals are escaping from the zoo,
disguised as humans. The lion wore a false nose,
but it tried to take a drink out of a garden hose,
and that’s when somebody saw through

to the real lion underneath. The streets
were almost deserted, and an onion cried.
And you woulda’ thought somebody’d died
And there was blood on the nuptial sheets

hung out the hotel window. What a harsh, shaming
culture we are! How inhumane! Always trying
to find reasons to blame the innocent! It’s flaming

hot for us down here in Pandemonium,
no modicum
of decency at all. I’m going back to lion taming!

*

You know, a sonnet’s like a villanelle;
only, you can’t just predict several of the lines.
So, all the more, you can’t ever tell
which way the cosmic thumb inclines,

and you’re pretty much adrift and on the street.
It’s as if you’d had a row
with your roommate, and you had to break your lease,
without a home to go to now.

Well, the birds wung in just fine. We saw a finch
before we all went into cardiac arrest,
or sprained our ankle, or got the flu.

We were flexible and refused to give an inch,
and we put our dead ideas to the test,
until our time expired—and about time, too!

*

Do we like night or day better, do we think?
Day is a million eyes
blooming together on the brink

of time, till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

You know, you violated your poet contract
when you didn’t want to pick a fight with God.

Nobody denies that God’s a pretty odd
dude, mainly good at putting on an act,

the old agony, you know,
putting on the style—
that’s what all the prayin’ folks are doin’ all the while.

Thanks, Pete. You had your say, you ran your mile.
We hated to see you go.
Now you’re just a shape in the bathroom tile.

*

Will you ever get back to the original topic? that’s the question.
Remembering the time you won honorable mention
in a track race—you didn’t drop the baton,
and the judges voted for you in abstention.

You hobbled to the finish line with kleenex in your pants.
Then you had to get a broom and sweep up the ants.
And when I sing my song, I hope you’ll sing along,
on the chorus anyhow. Forget the shoulds and can’ts!

We’re all poets here, and we excel at wild rants.
So unhitch your tongue from whatever cloud you’re on,
and practice your conjugation and declension.

If anyone looks at you at all, they’ll look askance.
You’ll be the boy with the inexhaustible crayon,
but no use trying to telephone—you won’t have the extension.

Villanelle for Iggy Pop

I love girls, they’re all over this world.

Is the world stocked with bicycle-needing fish?
And when I say fish, I mean girls.

Sure, the world is overrun with churls,
But even a churl can take hormones and be a dish.
I love girls, they’re all over this world.

Remembering when the morning star was hurled
from heaven. And joined the Amish.
And when I say Lucifer, I mean girls.

The girls crocheted, they tatted, and they purled,
and made all those creepy losers wish
they could take for their own a girl in this world,

remembering when her brown hair curled
around her head and her eyes glowed, and not a stitch
of clothing did she wear, and by a stitch I mean girls.

That’s why the muskrat's lordly jack unfurls
over his copyrighted horde of musk, so rich.
I love girls, they’re all over this world.
And when I say muskrat, I mean girls.

Villanelle: Nothing Is Better

Nothing is better. No one’s to blame,
as we walk down our long, lonesome road.
Hilarity and religion are the same.

It’s true, we can't call a rock by its name,
and we give too much power to the toad.
But nothing is better. No one’s to blame.

We had a big wedding, but nobody came,
our planned smooches never bestowed.
Hilarity and religion are the same.

What’s so funny about a walk in the rain,
sweet fragrance of grass newly mown?
Nothing is better. No one’s to blame.

Only an odd inconvenience of fame,
God's body, the heaviest load.
Hilarity and religion are the same.

We had to laugh when death ended the game,
all fall down to our final abode.
Nothing is better. No one’s to blame.
Hilarity and religion are the same.

Villanelle: My Poem Drive Is Still Alive

I think my poem drive is still alive—

poem beagles swarming fast and thick—
but I wonder if it’s better or worse than a prey drive.

To write a poem every day I strive,
though there are days when I don’t write a lick.
I hope my poem drive is still alive.

It’s like standing waiting for for the host to arrive
when I know I don’t belong to this clique,
and I wonder what could be worse than a prey drive.

Or like spending days waiting for the endive
to grow—it’s not that bad a schtick,
betting that my poem drive is still alive.

Still, there are times when I’d rather lie
on a leaf of grass like an enlightened tick,
untempted by the scent of passers by.

There’s a red fox running somewhere out under the sky.
Will it be too wiley and quick
for my dogs? I think my poem drive is still alive,
but I'm afraid it’s no better or worse than a prey drive.

Villanelle: Too Much Responsibility

You’re taking on an awful lot.

Do you really think you’re up to it?
Of course I am. Of course I’m not.

Trying to explain why fire is hot.

Your ambitions are immoderate.
You’re taking on an awful lot.

Trying to detect the exact shot
that killed Liberty Valence—that whole bit—
the grassy knoll and all. Of course I’m not.

You must have smoked a lot of pot
to think you’d ever compass it.
You’re taking on an awful lot.

Then there’s deal of whose grim lot
it’s going to be to stand on the bank when all the shit
rushes downstream. Of course I’m not

volunteering for that job. But I want to say, I fought.
You’ll never hear me say, the hell with it.
You’re taking on an awful lot.
Of course I am. Of course I’m not.

Villanelle: As Imagined

This isn’t quite as I imagined—

having to say I’m sorry when in love—
but I guess I must prepare to be chastened.

I feel free to steal whatever isn’t fastened
down, and I’m fascinated by you, my love,
just as I imagined

I'd be, bragging about the time I wrastled
a bear to the ground—you know, my love,
I was lying—good reason to be chastened.

But you gave your love to me, so how did I like them apples?
You gave me to eat of them, too, my irresistible love—
their taste was sweeter than gods could imagine,

and never a bite wasted.
So I was well-tested in the ways of love,
but it was all for the sake of being chastened

in the quest of another, barely-envisioned,
but always-desired, fruit, my love—
our encounters finer than anything I could ever have imagined!
But I am still preparing to be chastened.

End of Suffering/Tough Proviso

That time I stubbed my little toe—

I broke it, I think, but how could it be splinted?

It hurt like hell—when I went to bed,
the waves of pain ran up and down my leg.

And when am I not in pain, when it comes down to it?—

fearing loss of attachment, knowing I’ll soon die.

They say the Buddhist goal of escaping pain may well
be achieved from within the pain, if we're not afraid.

That one time, I went to sleep anyway—I found 
I could lie in the waves of pain like a feather bed.

Villanelle: My Carbon Vibration

I blew my teenage mind all to tarnation

when I ate those mushrooms way back in the day,
but I don’t know if they changed my carbon vibration.

If they did, how would I know? Did my playstation
change from green to purple? Did awesome power come my way,
when I blew my conceited mind all to tarnation?

Well, I didn’t notice anything. But the world became a claymation 
movie. Gumby was there, with a big gamma-ray
gun, teleporting my molecules, and maybe resetting my carbon vibration

from earthly to extra-terrestrial. Violent oscillations
in the nodules of my brain lascerated me for days
after I blew my fucking mind all to tarnation;

and there was a gooey, slurpy mastication
sound, as cosmic mashers mashed my pay-as-you-play
psyche to a pulp. Nevertheless, a hopeful new connection

sprang up between my gut and head. Jubilation
T. Cornpone himself walked on, sniffing a pink nosegay,
when I blew my solitary mind all to tarnation.
And I'm pretty sure it did change my carbon vibration!

Villanelle: Anxiety Furniture

You attach yourself to things like a cockleburr.

How can you lift one if it has no weight?
You live by moving anxiety furniture.

Worries have no weight, they’re pure
air, no more bonded to the ice than a skate,
but you attach yourself to things like a cockleburr.

Cockleburrs are light and without ligature.
They breed by sticking like the knife of fate,
so there’s always quite a lot of anxiety furniture

to move—that’s what your little sticky tines are for—
they help you land a berth, a job, a mate,
just by attaching to something like a cockleburr.

And this fine union, how can it endure?—
cockleburr on pantleg, or on china plate?
Sure, you have to push a ton of anxiety furniture

around, but what good is it? How could you hate it more?
No help in your quest for a serener state!
You attach yourself to things like a cockleburr.
You live by moving anxiety furniture.

How Does the Bird's Cry, Rainer Maria Von Rilke

How does the bird’s cry grab us ...

any once-created crying?

But, playing in the open, the children

already cry beyond actual crying.

Shout the accident! Into interstices

of space (in which the healing

bird's cry enters, as people dreams)

they drive wedges of screaming.

Woe, where are we? Ever freer,

like the ripped-apart kites

that we chase at mid-height, with edgy laughing,

shredded by wind.—Dispose the criers,

singing God! that they wake up rushing,

carrying as current the head and the lyre.

Rilke, Sonette an Orpheus, Second series, 26

Wie ergreift uns der Vogelschrei ...
Irgendein einmal erschaffenes Schreien.
Aber die Kinder schon, spielend im Freien,
schreien an wirklichen Schreien vorbei.

Schreien den Zufall. In Zwischenräume
dieses, des Weltraums, (in welchen der heile
Vogelschrei eingeht, wie Menschen in Traume-)
treiben sie ihre, des Kreischens, Keile.

Wehe, wo sind wir? Immer noch freier,
wie die losgerissenen Drachen
jagen wir halbhoch, mit Rändern von Lachen,

windig zerfetzten. - Ordne die Schreier,
singender Gott! dass sie rauschend erwachen,
tragend als Strömung das Haupt und die Leier .

Listen, You Already Hear, Rainer Maria Von Rilke

Listen, you already hear the first rake-

work; again the human stroke

in the restrained quiet of the potent

earth before spring. Not a bit corny

appears to you this Coming, that so often

seems to come to you as already come

again, like new. Always hoped for,

you never took it. It took you.

Even the leaves of the wintered oaks

shine in the evening a coming brown.

Sometimes the breezes give themselves a sign.

Black are the shrubberies. And clusters of dung

lie, sated black, in the fields.

Every hour that passes grows younger.

Rilke, Sonette an Orpheus, Second series, 25
Schon, horch, hörst du der ersten Harken
Arbeit; wieder den menschlichen Takt
in der verhaltenen Stille der starken
Vorfrühlingserde. Unabgeschmackt

scheint dir das Kommende. Jenes so oft
dir schon Gekommene scheint dir zu kommen
wieder wie Neues. Immer erhofft,
nahmst du es niemals. Es hat dich genommen.

Selbst die Blätter durchwinterter Eichen
scheinen im Abend ein künftiges Braun.
Manchmal geben sich Lüfte ein Zeichen.

Schwarz sind die Sträucher. Doch Haufen von Dünger
lagern als satteres Schwarz in den Au'n.
Jede Stunde, die hingeht, wird jünger.

In Spite of Fate, Rainer Maria Von Rilke

O in spite of fate: the splendid excesses 

of our existence, foaming over in city parks, -
or as stone men next to the keystones
of high portals, trees under balconies!

O the bronze bell, its tongue
daily resisting the daily dailiness.
Or as one, in Karnak, the pillar, the pillar,
the almost eternal temple survives.

Today the surpluses themselves topple,
gone but still in a hurry, from the flat-wards yellow day
into the exaggerated night, dazzling with light.

But the grass withers and leaves no seeds.
Arcs of flight through the air, and those who drove them,
none perhaps for nothing. Only just as thought.

Rilke, Sonette an Orpheus, Second series, 22
o trotz Schicksal: die herrlichen Überflüsse
unseres Daseins, in Parken übergeschäumt, -
oder als steinerne Männer neben die Schlüsse
hoher Portale, unter Balkone gebaumt!

O die eherne Glocke, die ihre Keule
täglich wider den stumpfen Alltag hebt.
Oder die eine, in Karnak, die Säule, die Säule,
die fast ewige Tempel überlebt.

Heute stürzen die Überschüsse, dieselben,
nur noch als Eile vorbei, aus dem waagrechten gelben
Tag in die blendend mit Licht übertriebene Nacht.

Aber das Rasen zergeht und lässt keine Spuren.
Kurven des Flugs durch die Luft und die, die sie fuhren
keine vielleicht ist umsonst. Doch nur wie gedacht.

O This Desire, Rainer Maria Von Rilke

O this desire, always new from loosened clay!

Almost no one invested in the earliest ventures.
In spite of that, cities were built, with well-bred golf courses.
Water and oil filled the jugs anyway.

Gods, we make plans with bold designs
that grumpy fate destroys for us again.
But they are undying. See, we are allowed
to hear the one who answers us in the end.

Our linneage through millennia: mothers and fathers
more and more realized in the future child
who exceeds us and then shatters.

We, we infinitely daring, what do we have time for?
And only silent death knows what we are
and what he always gains, when he makes us a loan.

Rilke, Sonette an Orpheus, Second series, 24
O diese Lust, immer neu, aus gelockertem Lehm!
Niemand beinah hat den frühesten Wagern geholfen.
Städte entstanden trotzdem an beseligten Golfen,
Wasser und Öl füllten die Kruge trotzdem.

Götter, wir planen sie erst in erkühnten Entwurfen,
die uns das mürrische Schicksal wieder zerstört.
Aber sie sind die Unsterblichen. Sehet, wir dürfen
jenen erhorchen, der uns am Ende erhört.

Wir, ein Geschlecht durch Jahrtausende: Mütter und Väter
immer erfüllter von dem künftigen Kind,
dass es uns einst, übersteigend, erschüttere, später.

Wir, wir unendlich Gewagten, was haben wir Zeit!
Und nur der schweigsame Tod, der weiss, was wir sind
und was er immer gewinnt, wenn er uns leiht.

Villanelle: Chopped Liver to a Python

Am I nothing but chopped liver to a python?

I have to say, I feel a little dissed.
If you want to guess a riddle, better ask one!

I once worked with a funny guy named Myron.
I was ahead of him on the employee list,
but he outlasted me when the corporate python

came and strangled us to death. I got a hard-on
and left for greener climes. And I wasn’t missed!
But you wanted to guess a riddle, so I asked one

about when your life whooshed out in one big yawn,
with the stars all bursting rose and amethyst,
all answers to all riddles far beyond

the still eternity-pond shore you stand on.
The python never loved you, and you’re pissed.
(Your grade of meat proved nauseous to pythons.)

You’ll have to make a go of it alone,
with no nice python for a hug-and-kiss.
You’re nothing but chopped liver to a python.
If you want to guess a riddle, better ask one!

Villanelle: Grafitti Under the Bridge Below the Stations of the Cross

On the right side, DEVIATE,

on the left, Our dick’s not shit
Put that in our box to incubate!

“Incubate?” Why not say “intubate”
if you really want to murder it?
You have every right to deviate

from the expected path that fate
has sworn your affidavit—
cells in your box to incubate.

So what if you prevaricate
your life away and never stroke a tit?
You know you have the right to deviate.

And if your angel should expostulate,
your angel just must get over it.
Put that in your angel’s box to incubate!

Just a new way to hesitate,
be too tired, say the hell with it?
Our dick’s not shit, I tell you! DEVIATE!
Put that in our box to incubate!

Stacy

In the early days of my final technical job, I worked on projects managed by a big, beautiful, extremely-competent woman named Stacy.

She was tough to work for, expecting nothing but 100% pure commitment from me—never mind that I didn’t completely know what I was doing.

She made me look good by being so competent herself, and she liked it that I tried hard.

She was a lot younger than the other project managers, some of whom were quite mean to her, I thought, 

maybe because she wasn’t deferential, and she accepted the power that was due her.

I think she had a difficult personal life. I overheard part of a breakup conversation with a boyfriend: “We don’t have much of a relationship,” she said. “We just have sex and then you yell at me for the rest of the day.”

She also had cancer at some point, but it was in remission.

She knew how to relax too—it didn’t take her long to put away a few beers at after-work celebration events.

She soon left my group, taking a better-paying position in another part of the company, and then leaving for a smaller firm at which I think she became a director of marketing.

And now she has a high-level job at a big med-tech company.

We became Facebook friends—I must have friended her—and a few years ago, I started seeing charming, funny posts about her son Elan.

At some point she evidently decided that she wanted to have a child, and she did it completely on her own responsibility—there’s no apparent father in the picture.

She calls Elan her lion.

Here’s the post I saw today: 
Last night, Elan and I each told a bedtime story. His involved a fire in our house. I almost got out, but then had to go back in for my phone.
I explained that I would just leave it, it is not as important as getting out safely, but the fact that I had to explain that to him is a cautionary tale.
Told by someone on her phone now. And now. And still...now.

Sometimes in life you meet people who are just plain admirable.

Call Me to That Hour, Rainer Maria Von Rilke

Call me to that hour of yours 

that perpetually resists you:
imploringly close, like a dog's face,
but always turned away

when you think to finally capture it.
Most of what's yours is withdrawn like that.
We are free. We were released therein
where we at first thought we were welcome.

Fearfully, we reach back for a hold,
too young sometimes for the old,
and too old for that which never was.

We, just only where we nonetheless praise, 
because we, oh we, are the axe and the branch
and the sweetness of ripening risk.

Rilke, Sonette an Orpheus, Second series, 23
Rufe mich zu jener deiner Stunden,

die dir unaufhorlich widersteht:

flehend nah wie das Gesicht von Hunden,

aber immer wieder weggedreht,

wenn du meinst, sie endlich zu erfassen.

So Entzognes ist am meisten dein.

Wir sind frei. Wir wurden dort entlassen,

wo wir meinten, erst begrüsst zu sein.

Bang verlangen wir nach einem Halte,

wir zu Jungen manchmal für das Alte

und zu alt für das, was niemals war.

Wir, gerecht nur, wo wir dennoch preisen,

weil wir, ach, der Ast sind und das Eisen

und das Süsse reifender Gefahr.

Villanelle: Bésame Mucho!

Bésame! Bésame mucho. 

Kiss me, kiss me a lot!
here in my modesty poncho.

My modesty poncho’s slow,
my modesty poncho’s hot.
Bésame! Bésame mucho.

Kiss me! Hold me! NOW!
as if tonight were not
just another night. Rip my modesty poncho

off right over my head, and throw
it out of my sight!
Kiss me, kiss me a lot!

You see, we don’t have far to go
before we’ll rot,
wearing our modesty poncho,

or even a pair of breezy gaucho
culottes—to stir the pot.
What’s time to a modesty poncho?
Bésame! Kiss me a lot!

Villanelle: We're All Lovable

We think we’re so unique, when we’ve had our fill.

We may be poor, but we’ve owned our dearest wish.
We’re all lovable. Let’s go to the hospital!

We might as well slap those lunkers on the grill.
Trout with lemon’s a fantastic dish!
We feel so damned unique, when we’ve had our fill.

Some okra could be at our beck and call,
viscous and stringy, to compliment the fish.
We’re all lovable. Let’s go to the hospital!

And yeah, we know we’ve each had a great fall
from our pre-birth state, no matter how delish-
nutrish the meal, when we finally have our fill.

Finned rainbow flopping in an ox’s stall.
They heaved the ball—it arced down and went swish
right through the ever-loving net. So let’s go to the hospital!

And when we finally hear our Master call,
I guarantee that we'll all yell, “OH, ISH!”
We thought we were unique, then we got our fill.
We’re all lovable. Let’s go to the hospital!