[Joe Crocker]

Bacchanal: the way you say it.

The half-cut chorus fails to nail its parts.
They need a proper drink, not one that starts
politely, sipping sherry, sharing tarts.
(A proper drink should end with lighting farts.)

Our cocktail maker shakes to darker arts.
Mix liquor, lust and luck. Unleash your hearts’
desires. While cupid pricks us with his darts,
a sex machine is roaring up the charts.

It growls “get up-a (get on up)”
Throw your head back. Drain the cup.

Peel away the cute veneer.
Unbutton. Come unstuck. Career
across the sharpened atmosphere.
Crash into a higher gear.
Show your know-how. Buccaneer.
Dance me till the room turns queer.
Whisper Latin in my ear.

Strip Jack naked. Mark his cards.
Help us lose the wit to parse

the parts of speech that interfere
with swinging from a chandelier.
Abandon virtue. Enter here.
May Sodom and Gomorrah cheer
our shamelessness. We buck and rear
in bent amplexus, holding dear.
Announce, or mispronounce and steer

a flagrant course to bare-faced farce.
Back anal:
xxxxxxxxxdoggy,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxup the arse.