A Hard Word to Say
by John David Muth

It's hard for me to say
that word that rhymes with dove
the crown jewel of bad poetry
the one that clings to my uvula
like a child who doesn't want
to leave the playground.

I could say it in French
but it would sound pretentious.
In German
you might imagine
the commander of a Tiger Tank
cooing to his 88 millimeter gun.
When I say it in English
my large intestines become
a Christmas Cracker
an eager pair of hands
pulls from both ends.

Can I affirm with a touch
tell you you're great
that if we were on the Titanic
during that fateful April night
I would push old ladies
and children out of the way
so you could get a lifeboat seat?
I wouldn't join you
as that would be dishonorable
but it is likely you would be
the last person on my mind
just before the North Atlantic
closed around my head.

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