Saint Paul, 7 September 2003
You know those antlers you spoke of?
Actually it’s the branch-like brachia protruding
Like some kind of fibrous coppice from your ears
This kind of thing happens in your mid-forties
In virile decades appealing lassies clung like metal filings
To the siren song of a horseshoe magnet
Irrigated from nap-time drool, harmless facial hairs grow
To transform your ear flaps into a deciduous armature
Time to eschew your otologist for a certified arborist
You have the mythological features of a ten-point buck
Yet your magnetry is limited to hoofed ruminant mammals
Prune your orifice hairs before you lose your senses