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Yacketty Sax

Richard Outram


The smallest mammal of our clime
weighs in at less than one thin dime.

How like the brightheart of a shrew,
battering, my Love, are you,

the which has known in parlous heat
death by the violence of its beat.

A shrew must, foraging its fate,
consume each day its body's weight

and rage rapacious through each night.
It too secretes a venomed bite.

Sweet savage fever, to adore,
insatiable, an omnivore,

for should chance have two shrews confined,
they must become one of a kind

and I don't mind.
And I don't mind.


Richard Outram's works copyright © to The Estate of the Author.


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