It’s late. I can’t sleep. I’m too tired to read. There’s only mindless crap on TV. I can’t face housework. So I’ve been lying here contemplating my navel. And I have composed an ode to it. Here it is:
O’ mysterious navel,
Deep and bejewelled.
Have your folds
many lint-seekers fantasies fuelled?
Do the depths of your vortex
A secret conceal?
Is the ring made of gold?
Can the crystal jewel heal?
Has the ingoing spiral
had its praises sung?
Is there room in your cavity
For the tip of my tongue?
I reeeeaaaallllyyyy need to sleep…