Henry’s Hungry Love Poem For Alison Stewart’s Reporting
On The Latest London Bombs

Alison Stewart’s little brown wonders, under, glass,
purple inside, legs slightly open,
asking stupid reporter questions,

all the pretty outfits covering her cockpit,
her curly Microsoft hair, IBM thighs,
nipples all a ripple from the latest terror tipple,

the double-decker parked red
in the middle of a London street
like her red lips horizontal, frontal,

the tubes tied, no subway born,
walking and talking the crowd surrounds her,
pubic public hair, republic, kingdom come.

Alison Stewart’s little brown jugs,
snug as bugs, lying on bear rugs,
Henry growls, his paw is raw from what he saw.

She spits out the news
to lubricate the American public,
her panties on the newsroom floor galore.