Smelly Joe who was a, like, usurper
In the purchase of bits of ironmongery
Mapped a sordid universe of “heels” and “tramps”
Mentioned most often in surviving accounts
‘Twas he who pricked with voltaic pile
So remote from the sphere of eroticism
“They don’t make cops of boys your age-“
Took my cats to hear their illustration
And the upper three for the weaver’s side
Between turkey-cock and female hide
They worshipped nature in the raw
One part to borrow books and one part “gal’s nuhves…”
The Grinning Gizmo and Too Hot for Hell
‘Twas he who pricked with feast days there
In the flame of dirty, blue, brutal jowls
‘Twas he who pricked with timid awl…
Returned to boil (and broken open)
Remote from spheres, heavy emotions
‘Twas he who pricked with grinning awl-
‘Goin’ on Cruel Jolt, still a bachelor…”
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