the little June bug got lost in the desert
where the ham nearly died of hunger
He runs right and left
but both right and left he sees only tomatoes blanched by lime
He looks up and sees a coat-tree
that’s making fun of him
O coat-tree varnished and waxed by lobsters
have pity on a little June bug with his tongue hanging out
because he can’t aim his gun at the socks
that would make him such a fine dinner
Have pity on a little June bug that plays the flute
trying to charm you
since he believed you were a serpent
Though you weren’t a serpent with either rattles or spectacles
the June bug wouldn’t have gnawed his flute
in despair
and wouldn’t have waited for death
behind a necktie
And death wouldn’t have arrived
like crystal choppers
and death wouldn’t have picked him up
like a cigarette butt