I am Madonna, lovely in my cones,
When small birds grumble I kabbalah them;
Ah, when I moan, I moan more ways than one:
The shapes a bawdy mystic can contain !
Of my choice virtues only rogues should speak,
Or gayish dancers who grew up on leeks,
(I’d have them sing in orgies, cheek to cheek).
How well my muscles flex ! I vogue aloud,
I showed you Sit, Roll Over, and Go Down,
I showed you touch, that undulant strap on;
You suckled meekly from my holy ground;
I was the sickle, you, poor you, my fate,
Embracing all of me for mortal stakes,
(And what prodigious children’s books I make).
[This message has been edited by wendy v (edited June 22, 2006).]
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