I Like

I Joe You lie About pineapples There are none under anywhere I look I see I find only dirty tulips Or orchid ribbons Orange With big black words A royal sky: It lets one see And what a good thing a white shirt is! Nice Nice to see red by night to know pink well to understand yellow birds to realize black and white Terribly nice Mirrors are Nice (Terribly) To see by To see by me You I love I love Indians pen points Hungarian plaster sweetmeats five A nice number to love by If feather pillows didn't leak Out onto green floors Where normal shoes belong With blue socks With white stripes And Boston newspapers All about news And things I like I like fried chicken smashed 'taters thickin' gravy not biscuits an' chawklit pie wif mushmeller toppin' And I simply love horoscope! (Crunch) The sky is aflame! Red (A jet of anti-matter gas is exploding harmfully against the upper atmosphere) But tomorrow is Tuesday And I shall see the four seasons on one branch of pink trees displaying Ivory lilies insisting Upon white privacy (Or they threaten not to root at all) I, personally, vote for blue And to hell with Easter I prefer red and green mother Christmas black birds of passion sunsets that consume pink nuns and salty peanuts and Renoir who bores me But most of all I like shoe polish And the big sun rises over Delhi. . . .