So the paperclip guy trades up and up until he has in a year a humble house in which to think and write and wow the world with words on paper, fastened with a clip.
I dig inside my pocket
find a pick
a plastic pick
which I will trade you for a coconut
you'll hand me if you're stranded
on a desert lonesome island
with your Martin (rather spartan)
I will float this nut to Vegas
on the Milky Way and bargain
with a Vegan up from Venus
who will give me hugs and kisses
if I make pina coladas
for his mama who disarms me
when I trade my hugs for coffee and
a kiss or two for chocolate
which I hear is better for you
when it's dark and rather bitter
so I hire a baby sitter
and a baby and her sister
and we all sit down for dinner
(cocoa quiche with buttered cherries)
and they serve me bloody marys
which I never touch for breakfast
but the neighbor lady lets us
have a taste of her meringues
she says are great with Russian vodka
and I crush her portulaca
when I sidle off with latkes
in my fancy fanny bag for which
a wealthy Polish heiress says
she'll give her gold tiara
and a view from her veranda
which I'm eying as I wonder
how's the weather in Tahiti
how's the music in the city
how's your pick and are you pretty
sure you've heard the last from me?
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