Good Taste

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

Although he doesn’t taste, he tastes as good

As bourbon jazz on Bourbon Street.  His teeth

Taste good.  His tongue tastes like a God’s tongue should.

His hairy chest smells like the summer heath

Swept clean by storms, thus not at all, no smell

At all except as nature’s breath.  The pits

Beneath his sgurr-shaped shoulders are a yell

Of masculinity beside his tits

Of furriness.  A shower and some soap

Scrub off his sweatiness.  His stomach too

Is smell-less, so a dainty nose can cope.

Perfumiers would copyright this brew.

  Between his legs the maleness lingers past

    Attempts to make it smell like Ahab’s mast.