POETRY
A Sour Sestina
Nikki Lynn
He’s driving with a hat – it’s a-head the old man.
Pressing on the brakes – with his beastly stinky feet.
Those stinky feet – venting a stench of gory goat cheese.
His breath creeps up your nose – crawling like oozing dog butt.
It all wafts so putrid and bitter – far from fresh like baby’s breath.
Once cradled, he cooed and cried – he suckled at mum’s warm boobies.
Too old for cruising – he misses any maiden’s warm boobies.
Racing, he’s heavy on the gas pedal – putt putt went the old man.
He is so gray and worn out – clear down to his ingloriously stinky feet.
He is moldy in the ears – he sprinkles pillows with pearls of goat cheese.
Termite infested, airy throughout– his rickety house reeks of rank dog butt.
Forgotten long ago – his house forgoes the simple sweetness of baby’s breath.
If only he could go back – he’d smell more of the baby’s breath.
As it is exhaled – pleasantly upon mother’s especially, warm boobies.
That sight was priceless pleasure – he wasn’t always a smelly old man.
No fair maidens take a second glance– regardless of hiding his stinky feet.
He can’t hide from his wrinkles anymore – his wretched look of goat cheese.
Unshaven and two winkers, instead of one – he resembles a hairy, dirty dog butt.
Hair fell off his head, it grows on his tail – a dingle-berried dog butt.
He puts powder in his britches – still, there’s no scent of baby’s breath.
Baby powder strikes a fair maiden to bond – still, there’s no warm boobies.
No more, of women who moon – wont to be wooed by the contrary old man.
He is always driving young at heart – still slow to the soles of those stinky feet.
You see the vaporous waves wafting about – that goading gore of hot goat cheese.
In his sour, piquant disposition – he sports the funk of icky goat cheese.
“Dirty, rotten sons-a-bitches ” – he snarls and snaps that scent of dog butt.
Raging about, that’s how he drives – not with a whisper like the baby’s breath.
His driving is slow atrocious – he says he’s only daydreaming about warm boobies.
His car is crazy, to the right, to the left, slow down the middle– he’s a scary old man.
His ears, nose, and eyebrows are hoary, waxy, and wild – he’s curdled to his stinky feet.
He must have both in the grave – they are startling, frightfully stinky feet.
His woman once called him “a hateful old goat” – she too, hated goat cheese.
Fido’s buried under that big old maple tree– yet, the car still stank like dog butt.
The bulldozer will soon visit the stick house – starting fresh for a new baby’s breath.
The new family will grow and be nurtured there – each suckled abreast of warm boobies.
Weary and waning, upon the gas pedal he stomps – spitter, spatter, sputter went the old man.
Here Lies The Mean Old Man.
Still Wearing His Ol’ Stinky Feet.
Come Close–Smell Any Goat Cheese?
