All photographs are by Russell Bittner

M a y

If May weren’t so smashing,
I think I’d be cashing
my shoes in for life at the Cape—

whose fêtes I’d go crashing
while probably bashing
my head in on fermented grape.

If May were less thrilling,
no doubt Jeffrey Skilling
would leave us all dumbly agape;

but Lay’s no less chilling
and is likely shilling
for guys who think love’s just like rape.

If May weren’t compelling,
I might think of selling
Lay’s version on videotape;

but nothing’s propelling
my urge to try telling
his sheep de Panurge to escape.

If May weren’t compounding,
their need to keep sounding
like dullards evading a scrape,

I might just try founding
a trust that seeks grounding
in other than ‘U. S. of Ape.’

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