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 date Grace Kelly
or how about Lauren Becall,
if she wasn’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 in an all too familiar voice:
“Harry, I got a good deal on Bayer Aspirin,
but I couldn’t find any of those wet