NOTE TO READERS: Here it is again: the famous Valentine Vic wrote and sent through the Darton College campus to the female faculty and staff, an act then-VP Joseph Kirkland termed “sexual harassment.” Vic’s lawyer condescendingly defined the term so Kirkland and President Peter Sireno had to contend themselves with a letter of reprimand for Vic’s records and the later dismissal of his division chair for not siding with key staff against faculty no matter how illegal or ludicrous the charges. So here it is again and so it shall be sent every Feb. 14 until his death and (according to the provisions of his will) in perpetuity by his heirs and descendents with this preface: ” A condition of my spiritual redemption mandates perpetual and public forgiveness to trespassors against me, in this case Peter Sireno and Jospeh Kirkland, who accused me falsely of “sexual harassment.” If you are easily harassed sexually, don’t read it.”
On Valentine’s the birds do choose their mates.
The hawks in flight and sparrows on the ground
Stop hunting prey and hopping all around.
They couple up, and then they copulate
In feathered frenzy squawking all along.
And then some roost in trees, some merely sit
Upon the heads of statues where they shit.
Some sort of whistle, or they sing a song.
One thing is true of every kind of fowl:
Those of feather do together flock.
The buzzard never makes it with the cock.
The raven never climbs upon an owl.
The heron does not stoop to hump the quail,
And lovebirds only nestle in a pair
with other lovebirds. The world never dare
to mount a peacock’s multi-colored tail.
You never see a bluebird mount a jay,
and chickadees don’t dittle mockingbirds,
but I could waste a hundred thousand words
and still not tell you what I have to say
about the birds and all that they don’t do.
They do enough of interest, to be sure,
although they keep their pedigrees quite pure.
To illustrate, I will describe a few:
Male ostriches jump on their partner’s back.
Her head is stuck securely in the sand,
and eagles daily high above the land.
The duck has his orgasm with a quack!
The penguins pass the long mid-winter’s night
with lots and lots of sub-Antarctic vice.
They hunker down and do it on the ice
because they were denied the gift of flight
and can’t fly off to Florida to mate.
Despite the cold the females are not frigid,
and little feathered penises get rigid
when February 14 is the date.
The vulture mixes dalliance with death.
His boudoir is the rib cage of a horse.
When buzzards have imbibed the final course,
they huddle up and coo with rancid breath.
And then there is the cuckoo, we are told,
that lays its eggs into another’s nest,
and foster parenthood is then impressed.
The bird that’s wronged is labeled the cuckold.
Some feathered fornicators mate in flight.
At least they come together in the air.
Then they become a quickly falling pair
with ruffled feathers, squawking with delight.
They roll their soaring passion in a ball
but wisely keep an eye upon the ground
as they, inflamed in lust, come hurling down
while yodeling in joy their mating call.
A carefree couple high above the stone
— two eagles, say, or falcons, even hawks —
may quite forget themselves in their sweet squawks
and break their feathered asses and their bones.
For birds that do their mating in the skies,
it’s best to prematurely ‘jaculate,
for they will both be wasted if they wait.
Coitus interruptus is advised.
The robin in his russet feathered breast
will strut his stuff upon the frosty ground,
while horny maiden robins gather round
deciding which cock robin they like best
And after that decision has been made
they gang-bang him round-robin near to death
until he’s long of tongue and short of breathand cured of any notion to get laid.
The female hummingbird receives a thrill
so quick it is a singular sensation
that’s put to her as one high-speed vibration.
She might as well sit on a dentist drill
as let that high-tech hummer have his way —
he hits and runs and ravishes so fast
she feels a subtle tingle in her ass,
and that is all. I’m sure she could say
for sure if she’d been diddled by a beau
or felt alone an airy premonition.
He never bothers with a proposition,
but if he’s good, she’ll ask “Which way’d he go?”
Well, people, too, when they are so inclined,
will come in season when the sap is down
in February, and they’ll choose their mates
and call them Valentines,
whom the will hop upon with birdlike glee
and warble, whistle, whip-poor-will, or screech
when one is tow and half of all is each.
They may climb up and do it in a tree
or in a hammock swinging from its limbs,
in airplane restrooms high above the earth.
In caves they’ll fornicate for all they’re worth
or in the church’s vestry during hymns.
The human couples, like the owl or loon,
in cloistered darkness or in broad daylight
will come together morning, noon, and night
upon the water or beneath the moon.
They’ll stretch their loves spread-eagle on the grass
or couple in the backseat of a car.
It doesn’t really matter where they are.
The body’s mobile when the mind’s on ass.
But now this Valentine is getting long.
And high time that I practiced what I preach
and hoping that my grasp exceeds my reach,
I’ll tell you why I up and wrote this song:
I have admired your beauty from a-far
and now would like to have a closer look,
at all your crannies, valleys, hills, and nooks –
the stuff that makes you beauty that you are,
So if you’ll sacrifice a little time,
we’ll put our knees together for a chat,
and we’ll exchange our kisses tit for tat,
and you can then become my valentine.
Oh, I’ll provide the tats. You bring the other,
and we can dally well into the night
until the morning planet sends her light
to charm you wits. Then you will be my lover.
We’ll join up with the eagle and the dove,
of Mars and Venus, mom and dad of Cupid,
who (everybody knows that isn’t stupid)
can shoot a hypodermic dart of love
That will unite us solely; that’s a fact.
He can inflame man, woman, beast or birds.
Then you and I will make, in Shakespeare’s words,
the legendary “beast that has two backs.”