Friday, September 4, 2009
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?)