Who are these lug nuts?
Who are these featherweights?
Who are these slum bums?
Who are these cretins?
Who are these dimwits?
Who are these bird brains?
Who are these crumb critters?
Who are these sad sacks?
Who are these dullards?
Who are these rum raisins?
Who are these nincompoops?
Who are these louts?
Who are these Jim Dandies?
Who are these meat heads?
Who are these brow beaters?
Who are these fuddy duddies?
They all live in my bones
And sing like Tom Jones.
We are the chosen.
Later, Hosen.
Enormous eggplants peppered her Easter hat.
They were a bit heavy, but purple and exact.
However did you find them, and what fun!
The old biddies said, when they saw her in the sun.
Why thank you, she said, pleased as all get out.
Her children had gone on, one with a little pout.
They were dying their eggs, with dye all over their hands.
They were playing their tubas, in their Sunday noon bands.
Rhe sat in the gazebo in her lovely dress of green.
She was the loveliest ghost many had never really seen.
Her delight was apparent, biddies gone away for now.
Her dancing was beautiful; her face was a wow.
She was the best dreamiest dream I had ever had.
She was big and beautiful, buxom busy and bad.
She was her own person, danced to drums of long ago.
Prancing into my head and she did not move slow.
Where did you find her? The fuddy duddies soon asked.
Hilarious, and funny, in her humor I basked.
She’s part of my imagination, I claim her as my own.
So naysayers, go away, you are not part of this poem.