Jack Horner

Should I be some
painted lunatic, slurping
Milton through a straw,
holding the door, for
some well-read tic
to stick his pins in?
Would I look fine
reading lines, juggling
baubles in the corner,
little Jack Horner,
sucking dick for
a gold star? hooray!
Who could want more
than to be the prick
they kick against all day?
No-one can tell me
how to blow my horn;
in, out, bruised or mend-
ed, consenting or wrought,
tranquil or distraught, form-
less or tune-less or wrong,
coming, going, or gone.
Teeth to teat, beat
the words no flunkey's
going to eat, the meat
the dogs are biting off the bone;
go home, sit alone, and
sunshine? Trot along,
go write a fucking love song.