“Where’s your blue monkey?”
Yes, that was what she said.
So I wasn’t sure if she meant
Some kind of exotic drink,
Perhaps something with rum,
Something that comes on
So sweet, so delicious, so demure,
But often leaves you lying
In a movie-set downpour
In someone else’s underwear,
Or maybe, maybe she meant
She wanted to see some part of me
She’d already cutely named,
But I’m quite happily married
And not one part of me’s blue,
Except sometimes my eyes,
But only in hazy, lazy dreams
That seldom involve monkeys
And from which I awake
To face the strangest questions,
Rubbing my eyes with answers.
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