It’s a cavern of joy you are thinking of now
A warm, tender field just awaiting the plow.
It’s a quivering pigeon caressing your hand
Or that sweet little pussy that makes a man stand
Or perhaps it’s a flower, a grotto, a well,
The hope of the world, or a velvety hell.
But friend, heed this warning, beware the affront
Of aping a Saxon: don’t call it a cunt.
—“Ode to Those Four-Letter Words”
