Hobosexuality
Kisses with no teeth,
itchy blankets underneath,
an overturned spittoon,
pairs of overalls strewn.
Bud says to Pete:
Your hair, (sniff) it smells so sweet,
it does not smell at all like feet.
Pete says to Bud:
Your caboose is looking good
next to that stack of sandalwood;
let's start a love train.
With their gunnysacks covered in dew,
these two hobos defy taboo
to make a ten-cent man stew.
In their boxcar of lust,
it's St. Louis or bust.