Where all the pontiff’s orbs are kept:
Crabapple multitudes, sweet slept.
Confessional the cubby seems
Where dog and boy feed naked dreams
And wash it all in innocence
From parsley/pickle/peppermints,
To in the half-lit wild of dawn
Uncoil in cartwheels on the lawn
And teach drab cats to catnip take
And Christian fasts call forth and break.
Then up the stairs the saved child creeps
And icebox-hid the sly dog sleeps
And none to know their midnight sins
Are stashed and slept in pantry bins.
And what the moral in this lies?
Stop boys. Leash dogs. Swat bugs. Squash flies.
Prohibit such from pantry reach,
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