It has tiny little fingers
Though no thumb nor wrist nor hand
With a usefulness that lingers
Scratching itches on demand.
It’s a modest piece of lumber,
Hanging five to save the day,
Polyphemus to encumber,
Surfing dissonance away!
Its qualitative paw defies
All quantitative Marxist lies.
François Truffaut’s 400 Blows
Recasts this wooden puppet’s nose.
Mini pillar, phallus, needle,
It’s the fifth and newest Beatle!
Cleopatra plus The Matrix:
It’s a modest dominatrix.
It helps you when you’re out of reach,
A bishop’s staff with which to preach.
It’s a doctor for your Hyde
Not a Jekyll suicide.
Its libation by the way
Is a redwood Cabernet.
It’s not amber; it’s not umber;
It’s a modest piece of lumber.
