Newts

Newts

I think that I would well dispute
A poem cuter than a newt,

A newt with little orange spots,
A canvas for connect-the-dots.

Bright orange in her newtly grace,
So delicate and fair of face,

Or in her garb of olive-green,
There is no lovelier to be seen.

Your tree-trunk legs and spindly arms,
You pull my heart-strings with your charms.

Your dewlap pulsing in the night,
As I watch you from my human height;

Your tiny bulbous eyeball slits,
Reduce me down to itty-bits.

Your glistening and shiny skin,
Your purity and lack of sin;

I may recite, and play the lute,
But only God can make a newt.


(c) Otterwoman 2004


(with apologies to Joyce Kilmer ["Trees"], who,
did you all know, was a GUY?)