Goodbye, June!

Goodbye, June, may the new month prosper, but not bury you! You were pretty chickenshit, actually, but maybe some rich princess will yet turn up before midnight. Anything's possible, but not much is likely. No, not likely. When I go to bed, it'll be tomorrow—if I could cut your throat, June, I probably would. Damn June Bugs If I could just be a duck On some lucky lady's lake in South Dakota, I'd hush except for quacking And a little flapping and flashing And maybe she'd feed me or I'd find what was needed And my grand conceit, such impetuous impersonation Of a different form of fool, might improve my stance While all the other birds would fly about like tipsy lords, Never doubting, always toiling from the water To the air in vast balletic dance. They’d leave the surface of the water boiling With bubbles and tension and all the things not eaten, And the clouds might roll, passing me by with only The slightest tinge of darkness showing, And I'd be safe, Away from here. I'd even eat the damn June bugs!