Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Morning Wood

Morning Wood

In my dreams the fields of corn

Bamboo speed grow for harvest each morn.

The magic crop returns each day

There for the husking, no price to pay.

And from this dreamscape I emerge and feeling good

With silky whispers in my ear and a cord of morning wood.

Yes, morning wood, I said.

Magic crop of the bed

Thriving each sunrise while the rest of me lies dead.

And I wonder what I've done, how I've earned this gift daily

To rise and shine and give God his Glory! Glory!

While strumming chords of gratitude on my special ukelele.

Now I want you to know a secret of mine

This Don Juan of the Dawn, studly steed, my morning equine

It comes without calling, arrangement or invite

Yet I've come to expect its welcome breeze to lift and carry my boyish kite

To crayola clouds dyed in new day's light on the edge of the sunnyside of dreamy, fading night.

Oh yeah, the secret. Okay, here it goes.

But keep it to yourself, 'cause nobody knows

But that tool-like stiffness, hammer handle of Thor

Rock-hard mallet of whacking, capable of cracking

Smiles on the faces of Mt. Rushmore--

Isn't mine.

There! I said it and I know it to be true

For my little pecker couldn't snap dried spaghetti in two

Now don't get me wrong

For I love my ding and the way it dongs

And let's me sing all of my favorite songs

And while it may not crow with the cock chorus of the morning grow

It croons pleasantly when it does

With a friendliness that's hard to miss

And when accompanied by sweet kiss and gentle stroke behind my ear

My fallible, gullible lovejoy spouts

Shiner Bock beer.

No, not really. Just kidding about the beer. But the rest is fair

The fickle in my pickle and the semper fidelis of the morning formation

Do not compare as they should and this has brought me to speculate

About the nature and properties of my morning wood.

It isn't connected in the normal way.

I mean, I can feel that it's attached, its weight and its sway

But the pleasure connectors seem not to be plugged in

It's a dildo from Heaven but crippled for sin

The divine plan eludes me, perhaps rent to own?

But some ethereal organ donor must be connected to my magic bone

And thy Kingdom will come if thy will be done

Except for myself who's been left out of this fun

Stone pestal to slammed mortar, I've put it to good abuse

But when it comes to self-pleasuring

Alas! It's of no use.

Am I making myself clear about the irony here?

To have an ironclad warhorse magical dreadnought of steam

Power to part petals and smash lucky flower

To serve breakfast coffee but to settle for no cream?

It's unknown to me! Magnificent erection of mysterious birth

It's a confection meant for others

The mirth is the girdth.

So the joke told in this chicken-chokehold which I've tried time and again

Since morning wood burns not in my personal stove

I'm fated I guess to give it to a friend

And I have and I do give away my wood gladly

For it comes not for me no matter how madly

But for you, and for you, and for you

This bumper crop I can give to you

For it's non-connectedness to me matters not in your view

And that's your secret.

So in this dream, I'm in this field.

Two rows diverged in the corn and I

Couldn't tell which was the one

Less traveled by.

So there I stood until I could

Each night the dream, each morn the wood

Steadfast there among the corn

Lacking direction every morn

So there I stood until I could

And finally learn to burn my wood.


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