Yacketty Sax

Richard Outram

The smallest mammal of our clime
weighs in at less than one thin dime.

How like the brightheart of a shrew,
battering, my Love, are you,

the which has known in parlous heat
death by the violence of its beat.

A shrew must, foraging its fate,
consume each day its body's weight

and rage rapacious through each night.
It too secretes a venomed bite.

Sweet savage fever, to adore,
insatiable, an omnivore,

for should chance have two shrews confined,
they must become one of a kind

and I don't mind.
And I don't mind.

Poem 1 | Poem 2 | Poem 3 | Poem 4 | Poem 5 | Poem 6 | Poem 7 | Poem 8 | Poem 9 | Poem 10 | Poem 11 | Poem 12 | Poem 13

Richard Outram's works copyright © to The Estate of the Author.