I’ve never lived near lochs like Ness.
The lakes I like are stocked with less.
Their fens are penned. The glens are gleaned.
The geese are cooked. Their fish are cleaned.

Christ, immortal butterfly,
pinned and always on display,
bless this house, so prim and right,

for cul-de-sacs are something like an isle,
the way a stubby wing is like a fin,

the way a television’s like an eye,
or suburbs are like towns, or clocks like time,
or dodos are like angels waddling by,
or Liberty’s the backside of a dime.

A feather duster up on stilts
Who favors neither pants nor kilts,
He thinks his native state is splendid
And gads about as God intended.

The rhino is a gentle sort
who's locked his heart inside a fort
(or, since it moves, more like a yurt),
afraid he'll get his feelings hurt.