Simple squamous epithelium
That lines the frothing orifice
Of politicians and wine-soaked braggarts
Cytoplasm
That flows equally
In justice and infectious regurge
Genes
That transplant the ghastly
Pale-light abscess of custom-made drivel
God, Ph.D., you too?
The womb must be a spaceship.
A fuselage of stars.
The fuss of all new mothers
who's astronaut's are ours.
Each toddler with a mission
to rocket into space.
Where drives to leave the planet
grow on for our disgrace.
The welcome to our planet
that all new enfants show.
The tolpier' of living
that all regurge below.
A need to be in space
between what we dont' know.
The comfort of belonging
teased men will boldly go.
Our cosmonache to space
we'll all belong someplace.
The rest from other's womb light
that all our babies face.