Peeing with Whitman

I was feeling rather muzzy, on one really, dreary day.

My head had doubled in size, and was resting on the kitchen table.

What was I to do?

"You can hold still while I finish my experiments," someone said.

"Who said that?"

"Not so loud. I'm trying to work in here," the voice said.

"Work in where?"

"Inside this musty old brain of yours. It's like a pigpen in here. Did you know that with proper stimulation, this wonder of nature can keep you happy and healthy for several more decades?"

"Hey! Who's saying that?"

"Never mind that. Wow! I can't believe what I’m finding here! You don't know one Shakespeare sonnet? Hey! Where's Whitman? You don't know your Whitman!

“I can explain.”

“Boy,” said the voice, “you sure do know a lot about strip clubs and beer.”

“Well,” I tried, “they’re not as smart as the classics, but they’re not as dusty, either.”

“What have we here?” said the prober. “You wrote a poem?”

“Please, don’t” I said. “It‘s personal.”

"Your hips are like
Thrusters
Your thighs a mile high
If you let me lick your --"

“Please stop!” I cried.

“Well, you wrote it.”

“I’m in love and want to get married,“ I said. “Her name is Lusty Bunns.”

“You won’t get Lusty with crud like that,” he told me. “Now relax and allow me to do some tweaking here. You just may win a heart by the time I’m done with you.“

“I really need to pee,” I said. “Could you speed things up a bit.”

”You’ll be up and about in no time,” he said. "You're sufficiently tweaked. My work here is done.”

The Next thing I know I'm standing over the toilet, peeing. My body is humming and I'm reciting:

"The curious sympathy one feels when feeling with the hand
The naked meat of the body."