At the Grave of Yvonne De Carlo
Here is a simple recipe
for moral turpitude with hard sauce.
Yvonne De Carlo died.
I frenched a father’s finger.
His omission became my mission.
My luxurious attic life:
a girl ruined or owned it,
nabbed me, sat on me.
I’d misjudged clout levels.
The United States should be washed and folded
and put in its drawer like a good miscreant.
I demand exactitude.
