“Kiss Me Andropov”, said Henry Cabot Lodge

Why did the United Nations sit its bottom down in Manhattan?

Woulda been the Riviere Riviera, of the Mannahattas?

Fat, peace ‘a loving big bottom gal with hefty appetite lookin aroun, shoppin aroun for a sugar daddy or uncle,

Uncle Sam?

Funnin’ with a big bottom gal, UN espied an incestuous uncle, though incest is better with sugar daddy.

UN sits its fat ass bottom down,

It is prime real estate there, river bottom, shore of Alta Atlantic, where big bottom gal occupies space, flab all the way to Wall Street, where they appreciate flab, where she sweet talkin and mockin occupies and preoccupies

Where the twin towers, WTC, might maybe oughta be, chumming up to UN,

and the guys at the UN, blessed with diplomatic immunity might stretch their limelight legs, gangling finagling, for their lust must be a tunnel between that modernist– I didn’t say brutalist– didn’t say you’d want meddle to journey that tunnel, slimy, sticky walled…

Not that far from Broadway

Not that far from Oddway

There are such tunnels, for example, all over Fanny Fox and Wilbur Mills, in Washington, D.C., but especially between the Capit Caput “Dome” baldhead, wise wooden head, the Capitol Building. Tunnels under Gaza, tunnels under mines and mountains, tunnels under Wyoming, for sodium bicarbonate; call the tunnels connections, intimate connections. Or semenal vesicles, blood tunnel vessels, UN blood criss cross– a soldier? A UN soldier? Or a UN WWI trench, an odd way between brothers-in-arms, brothers of shoulders, burnishing and brandishing League of Nations,

She, UN Charter, not up for barter, or blame, sat herself down in a plush Mannahattas chair, inviting her ducklings for suckling. She knew she had problems, and was only, modernist in design, you’re not a Whore of Babylon because of imperfection, Throne room of the chairman, of the Bard. Broad is the highway, narrow the gate, you can still go there, don’t be late.