WHERE I SPIT by Dennis Doph

out there. 7

Let the Christers rise up and fruitlessly endeavor
To cover us all with glory. Let them flock
Let them all twist again like they did one far-away
last summer, go off half-cock,
Let them elbow us to show us how very clever
They are to celebrate whole-heartedly
their pal Sweet Leaping Jesus.
Let them wrap their rosaries around their waists
like g-strings to please us.
Let them poison our neighborhood with the strains
of T-Rex and the Doors unbound, in and out
of chains.
Let the old floppy-dippy-hippie matrons unbind
their fearsome hair,
Let their fat-gutted banty rooster husbands
grovel before their beldame fair,
Let their kith and kin rock 'n roll in a reverie
too dim to capture
Let their twisting and their turning present
a simalcrum of The Rapture,
Let them exhibit their ignorance without
a shred of human doubt,
And I will let my gobble-ins get them,
if they don't watch out.
For if they let off steam in my space,
even just a little bit,
This devil-educated Kraut will work up
one lethal gob of spit,
And if I spit, and when I spit, my spit
is cruel and clever,
For when I decide to release my demon spit,
Where I spit, no weed grows. Ever.