I think it’s time
On Old Lorca’s dime
To bend ample willow and waist.
Go get your flu shot.

This won’t hurt, it’s completely routine.
Part of tradition, half divine half obscene.

What I want you to do is roll up your shirt
Then fill out this form, don’t be a flirt.
And tell me why you’re doing this, why you are here.
Were you under the influence of some foreign beer?

Or whiskey and soda or half a pint more
Of vodka creams downed by the old corner store?

Black out and stumbling
You fell to his arms and
With cherry so humbling
You went ahead and caught the flu.

Or–sweet thing just a little further I can’t get the needle in when you do that–
Or did you love him and will your congestion to being
With frank heart and devotion unseeing?

You have to square up
Pull your damn self together.
All we can do here
Is administer weather.

Pants down, please.
Now panties too.
When you cry like that
You may spread the flu.

I want you to know, we’re all on your side.
Only look out that window,
Don’t the trees just deride
Any thought of being any less than you are

Any thought of remembering
The source of this scar?

Now lie back, you thing,
And spread them apart.
Think of clover and dale
Life’s work of art.