Across the golden plains of Nebraska
In bounding glory drunk on wine and youth
Approach three lads, and An'thny in mask, a
small marsupial baring, just, a tooth
The boys, all strapping strong and bronze with sun,
Now loosed from labors turn with brightened eyes
Upon the prospects of night not begun
Aching of arms and breath, thrusting of thighs
In rows of corn, chest high and kernel rich,
And watched with furtive glee by faux wombat,
The trinity tumbles through hedge and ditch
A verse from some Midwestern Rubaiyat
Not ten miles from Omaha is this:
A masque of red state dappled farmboy bliss.


-- gypsy mothra