I was strolling on a hot summer day
in a field full of Van Gogh poppies.
I dreamed I looked like Troy Donahue,
tan and shirtless, wearing shades
as the gentle wind ruffled my blond hair,
wondering if I should I date Grace Kelly
or how about Lauren Becall,
if she isn’t too busy.
I stood in the swaying fields of poppy,
surrounded by a thousand singing Hobbits
with large feet and big hairy ears.
While flexing my pecs and bulging biceps,
a beautiful naked lady appears
with long, flaxen hair and ample bosom,
riding a Chagall white horse sidesaddle.
She invited me to hop on
bareback, galloping up to the sky
as she gently shared her
moist, warm soul,
nibbling on my ear, whispering:
“Harry, I got a good deal on Bayer Aspirin,
but I couldn’t find any wet Swiffer sweeping