Grant me, God, a little boon:
Let me sing a different tune.
Don’t let me laud the lowly rose:
Instead, some posy no-one knows.
Steer me clear of Mays and Junes
And lead me not to corny moons.
Keep me off of gardens; grass–
I’ll write of anvils, thread, or brass.
Take me out of fields of clover–
Let occult and weird take over.
Children, dogs, and all that hooey?
Sic me onto something screwy;
Something rattle-brained, obscure–
And nothing simple, nothing pure.
Yea, let me skip that stuff of home ,
And so construct a different pome;
Say of my verse , if man has banned it–
Only God can understand it!
by Ray Romine Wednesday, July 14, 1948
