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May 9, 2017

The rumpled rumps ruffle their trunks

Whistles the mammoth of a man

In a greasy yellow raincoat

Spraying the eyes of subway riders

Pink eyes stinging


You can blame it on the milk

You can blame it on the smog

You can blame it on the birds and the bees

Some would say

But that wouldn’t be it


You can blame it on the weather

Everyone blames it on the weather

That’s why they call it under the weather

But the weather can’t bury you

Deep down in your stomach

In the brown sagging sack

Of your own gut


Someone once told me

You can only be a bird or a pig

What shape is your nose?

But I am not a bird

And I am not a pig


I am a rumpled rump

Rumpled as can be

I ruffle my trunk at this and that

I can ruffle my trunk in a circle

Watch me as I ruffle my trunk down the street


You know what really ruffles my trunk?

That nibble at my neck

Like a chew toy

With the dying squeal

Clutching at straws

Slipping through

My fat fingers


He could be as rumpled as me

But we would never see

Eye to eye

He would ruffle his trunk at me

And I would go on and on

Ruffling my trunk

In a circle

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