Springtime in Chicago in November.

My forty-first year to heaven.

My left hand wants to know

what my right hand is doing.

Oh. Sorry I asked.

First comes love, which I disparage.

I blight with plagues a baby-carriage.

Green means go and red means red.

Now we’re cooking with Sudafed.

Steer by, deerfly. I hereby declare

the deer tick on my derriere

a heretic. Derelict, hunker down.

Get the Led out, Goodman Brown.

Get thee behind me, Nathan.

Horseman, ramble on.

Springtime snows white hairs on me.

Green means go and go means gone.