A MIGHTY YOGURT IS OUR GOD

A mighty yogurt is our God,
And wicked as a teasel,
Which makes Our Mother dark and cross
As clouds above grass-laden sod
That draw its great green breasts of loss
Up to the Big Sloth Weasel.

He, stretched upon the thongs of hate,
Despises every inning
Wherein poor pricketts pushing past
The hateful health of Pa's debate
Let go the thought of shorn things massed
As if they might be winning.

Soon comes the second -- aye, that long --
When they are caused to know it:
Each prickly parent reams them through
With a necessitated gong,
To wake them up astride the ewe,
And only snow to show it.

He that did plow a Christmas path
Amidst dark stumps of apples
Shall sure upon the hills be struck
With avocado pears of wrath
And heathen antonyms of luck,
Which each brown spatter dapples.

Each now devises by his ways
An ever crushing pattern
Of rampantly abrading spheres
Dispersed in swarms of bleak displays,
To vomit heat on stellar fears,
While Justice bides, a slattern.

Evil are they that hate the witch
That drinks their blood upon them,
For it is purple, and can but
Despoil the whimsies of our stitch
Till naught but razor blades can cut
Such strings, from such as don them.

But worse and worse the wet flesh gets
By every moonlit measure,
So sprouts of vaginated teeth
Infest the serifs of our debts,
Like pintles holy men bequeath
For our dendritic pleasure.

And so the asterisks of hate
Have synchronized their twitches
In order to become the sight
Of film-clothed Death (at any rate)
And, with a little luck, of Night,
Who comes in small, ripe breeches.

                      [Written about 1959]