Naming Monkeys

I spend my time most wisely
naming the various monkeys
my fantasies gestate
all dependent of course
on what they bring
to the table, or my back
and that which they take away.
Eduardo brought a waistcoat
and left with ankle bells
basically he named himself,
but Crystal, on the other hand,
needed more convincing,
even though she danced a go-go,
after leaving me a faded
sepia tinged photograph
of a once grand
ostentatiously appointed
white plantation house
in Kentucky, I assumed,
where she once picked up a pair
of silver thigh high boots.
But Dan, oh Dan
a most suitably appointed handle
would never, ever
come a running, or a hanging
no matter how long I called.


Ten little monkeys
drinking barley wine
one staggered onto train tracks
and then there were nine
Nine little monkeys
in a gun control debate
one lost his head a bit
and then there were eight
Eight little monkeys
eating scones in Devon
one choked on a raisin
and then there were seven
Seven little monkeys
on the hunt for sixties chicks
One copped off with Twiggy
and then there were six
Six little monkeys
going for a drive
One picked up a dodgy hitchhiker
and then there were five
Five little monkeys
swinging on a door
one got his little fingers trapped
and then there were four
Four little monkeys
went together for a pee
one had a zipper accident
and then there were three
Three little monkeys
flinging round their poo
one had some tummy trouble
and then there were two
Two little monkeys
playing the long con
they screwed each other over
and then there was one
One little monkey
sitting in a tree
tapping out this little rhyme
as that last monkey is me.