Poetic Fire
Reverend Biki
Strode
To the pulpit
And silently
Took in
The gathering.
The flock
Sat quietly
Waiting
For the message.
Someone
Cleared their throat,
Another
Sneezed.
Yet another
Loosed gas.
Reverend Biki
Waiting
For the up-roar
To die down
And the smell
To ease
Before
He launched
Into the sermon
For the day.
"Pray ye,"
he began,
"Pray ye,
blokes and sheilas
alike,
Pray ye."
"What form?
I ask,"
He smiled,
"What form?"
"Roo-piss,"
someone answered,
"Unrhymed, two verse,
alternating hands,
masturbatory,
two-step massage-like,
yoga licking,
non-syllable interface,
Richmond-style
Bad bed form."
"Good,"
Reverend Biki
Smiled.
"But,"
he grinned
sadistically,
"Can you
do it in
pig-Latin?"
"Oink-may,
Oink-may,"
Answered the flock.
Reverend Biki
Lay his rhyming book
Down
And let the room
Fill with
Poetic Fire.
The fire
Took them
And
They burned
Together
In a yellow
Flame
Of passion,
Of bliss,
And
Aussie Roo-Piss.
Coltrane
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