A wild thing, choice.
The woe, a man kind, wore her golf suit and made mischief of many binds
and a bother
her mother called her “WILD THING!”
and Man said “I’LL BEAT YOU UP!”
so she sent her to bed without eating anything.
That very night in Man’s room a rave grew
and grew –
and grew until her ceiling hung with JBL chords
and the walls became the world’s woofers
and an ocean tumbled by with a private vowel for Man
and she sailed off staves through night and ray
and in and out of creeks
and almost over her tear
to where the wild things danced
And when she dug tattoo anchors ashore, where the wild things are
they scored their terrible roars with gnashed, lies and terrible feats
and pills rolled their terrible sighs and bowed to their terrible clause
till Man said “BE STILL!”
and tamed them with the magic click-click barber trick
of glaring into all cracked and mellow eyes without blinking once
and they were enlightened and called her the most wild thing of all
and made her king of all the lie things.
“And now,” cried Man, “let the parade-a-lumpus start!”
“Now drop!” Man said and sent the wild things off to the house lounge
without their water. And Man the king of all the lie things was bonely
and wanted to be where someone could loved her best of all.
Then all around from far away across this cold world
she smelled good things to eat
so she gave up being king of lies, and the wild things star.
“Guts,” the wild things cried, “please don’t go—
we must eat your up inside – we love you so!”
And Man said, “No!”
The lie things roared their terrible oars and thumped their terrible feats
and rolled their horrible aye’s and showered their cancerous applause
but Man stepped into his private boat and fishes waved good-bye
and sailed back through many a fear
and in and out of words she speaks
and view some hay
and into the sight of her very own room
where she found her happiness waiting for her
and it was still hot.