- Robert Roman
My Own Private Ulysses: Bloomsday Radio
I feel a cold, old wind fondle my ear,
Buck’s words I hear, he’s one bad amigo.
Atop Martello Tower, he’s all jeer.
Tune in, I’m on a Bloomsday Radio.
I feel a tightening in my scrotum,
And my tally whacker yells tallyho.
The Irish Sea is so cold, she shrinks him.
Turned blue, I’m on a Bloomsday Radio.
No comprende, why’s it freezing in June?
My blood has ebbed. Wait, was that an ice floe?
Now my California eggplant’s a prune!
Tapped out, I’m on a Bloomsday Radio.
Next June, I’ll turn the dial to Calypso.
Or cuddle this cold and just go commando.
Stay tuned for more voodoo sonnets.
Same southern time, same border channel.