One wonders what wakes him up in stomach
When crickets rake in silences in dark bushes.
There is the strawberry sac of juice that grows
In honey cells unwontedly , nothing to create
A sort of creation for creation’s sake, just like
The other appendage which is pointless pain,
In the lower regions, filled with a dark humor.
We are trying to make jokes of our little sacs
That overflow with yellow melancholy juices.
The doctor says dealing with old is more art
And less science and nobody wants creation.
Dealing with them is dealing with the old fart.