You always confuse beauts, buttes, and butts,
one of which gets me all worked up.
How’s about you and me
find a place where the land falls
ninety degrees? You can cop a feel
under a cliff wall
while blabbing about all the buffalo jumps
of two-hundred odd years ago,
Indians disguised as wolves, stampeding the beasts,
1,500-pound buffs plunging to their deaths.
“They’re bison,” you’ll tell me. “Not buffalos.”
There you go again, killing my hard on.
There you go again.
I hate my single friends.
Here I am again,
about to be one of them.
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