Red and Yellow
I was born in a field of red.
Red was breakfast, luncheon, and supper.
Solely on red we fed. In red
we wed; in red we buried the dead.
Woe was for the fellow traveller
who disdained the colour—nothing but
dread and dolor (lest he lust for
another, in baby-blue blushing—
and for this then wind up dead), and
when I did shift countries, yellow still
got short shrift, through with much less risk
for showing off one’s yellow belly.
Still, wary eyes would drift and frisk
the body, for it was not meant for
a man, sentenced to his drab hues.
Now, with each day, I have a few less
dues; I’m paid up. After all, I
did not turn to jelly when I loosed
my beautiful paunch in all
shades of yellow upon all of you.
Neither did the phallus shrivel,
despite dictums drilled into thick heads,
when I wore yellow stockings, large
yellow bow on my head, yellow dress.
Colour does not know of drivel,
and though sometimes red still has a place
in my head, I do love the chance
to be a mellow yellow instead.