Shall we divide the foreplay from the feast?
In the gloom of morning, the flight
began. The sun rose not in the east
but south, where the clocks said it was night.
“Too many cocks spoil the broth,”
said Bernard Malamud to Philip Roth.
But why choose? Why not take both?
“Too many cooks suffer from sloth.”
Many exist, but few can deal.
Few can feel the hunger for height
of an eagle on a girder of steel.
Many believe, but few are right.
So let us divide the foreplay from the feast.
Too many crooks get away with murder.
No one can satisfy the lust of the beast
or bus, with corpses thrown under.