Chop-chop on the cherry tree, cherry chop-chop.
Our legends dissolve in a panoply of whispers.
In fabulous strain.
In a frisking of whiskers
we watch the experiment spin down the drain
the soap-on-a-rope still hanging
and the little plastic ship in the sink on the lake.
In the street children banging on cast iron pots
wearing ostrich plumes, shouting,
“O Cosmos, too snooty!”
dosing with Robitussin, shaking small booty.
One confides to his friend near the end,
“My father’s in a box,”
or “My father’s a wolf who only eats peaches.”
Another complains that her brother’s a chicken,
“…someday a sure shoe-in for President Pigeon.”
And fetching ever after.
And totally dry. The truth my best sweethearts
is always a lie
til you die til you die
what a marvelous ax.
Chop-chop on the cherry tree, chop.