Have you seen the Smiling Peeper?
He comes before the Silent Reaper.
He bends a bit. You twist and snap.
When he sits you become his lap.
Your body in short fits all of him.
Thrusting in and out you’re never within.
Until you stretch and reach a point:
A snail’s tale in the Age of the Joint.
Why not keep dying instead of living
inch by inch in the practice of giving?
Mind you it’s a horror growing old.
Unless you have stash and act bold,
you flop about and flap when going.
Your shell a skeleton without knowing.
But if you flow gently into the yawn,
lie with the tongue before going down.
Or roll and skip and walk on your tail
flipping about in front of the whale.
Then either way say please swallow me.
I’m yours in kind of a harmony.