OK, somebody had to do it.
Get their ass in gear, so to speak,
And in so doing plant their butt
To write about the human posterior
Exterior—arse, heinie, tush, the fanny.
I am bummed that it had to be me.
But here we are. I am bummed that
It took us this long. We are not talking
About pirate’s booty here, but what
The French call the derrière, or shaken,
The can-can, oo-la-la. Accountants tell
Us we are in arrears when we get behind.
So would it be impolitic or cheeky of me
To assert that assholes who congregate
To legislate invariably are a rump
Session? At bare bottom, I must conclude
That all of this is but a prelude to us
Being sent head over keister, only to land
On the backside of our front side. I will not
Speak of the glutes in absolutes, because
That would, of course, entail deep-seated
Knowledge of the anatomy of the behind
Anything and everything. But I do know
That, like trains, we have a caboose, while
The Navy has Rear Admirals and poop decks,
And the simple automobile has a trunk
Where the elephant has its tail.
Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. His poems have appeared in many magazines, most recently Ibbetson Street, Muddy River Poetry Review, Sheila-Na-Gig, London Grip, ONE ART, and Ink Sweat & Tears. He was formerly dean at Montana State University.
