In Which He Defends His Family From Insult

Son, don’t even try
to clown here — not when
your wife’s made
of cuckoo feathers
and talks in porcupine quills,
not when you’ve got
those two poison-dart kids
with grouch bag eyes that match
their limb-licking attitudes — 
son,
you carry your relations,
and I will carry mine.

At least when I am with my lover
and I lower my mouth onto hers,
I know I won’t come up
choking on the taste
of anyone else.  Can you
say the same?   This bar’s mad full
of lips whose flavor
you might recognize
if you did a little research,
but I digress —

stop clowning, son;

you’re under the big top now
and not even close
to being top banana.