This is a poem about my nipples.
I call it “Titillation” because that’s a pun
and people pretending to be poets
use puns as the illiterati use memes:
to prove how clever we are.
So prepare to be impressed.

Darth Vader sports ye olde chainmail and has a turkey leg
in his left hand and a program in his right.
He is muddy AND dusty, smelling of grease and that crocodile stand.
He has never been happier, never more carefree.

Odin and Zeus stand in the grand gazebo
keeping quiet company as they overlook the grass pristine.
Few words have been spoken between them since the great
debate of mead versus ambrosia and who exactly
made the better home brew in the neighborhood.
Their proximity to another was itself disquieting.

Rising, spoon-sceptred
Friends, entreat my words on burnished throne,
Cursing worms in salads tempest-tossed,
Scarce fit for puking nurses—am I alone?
My hapless band of brothers, courage lost?