Steve McQueen

Steve McQueen
Icon of the sixties
Your name is on my shirt

I met your grandson, Steven McQueen
With all the east coast pixies.
His handshake didn't hurt.

He was nice, and used to play with vampires
Anne Rice is more my style
She writes a tragic monster tale

But hey, where is the staple of this Empire’s
Usual talk about the pile
Of poop, I hear you wail.

Well, it came and went
With hardly a bother
So elsewhere was sought

For poetry to be sent
Like a wounded father
Wallowing in his lot.

I know, that was lame!

You're seeking much the same

As what you normally find

After poop leaves my behind.

 Maybe tomorrow will be better

The poop warm and wetter

The wipe, near divine.

We will see, readers of mine.
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