The Parts That Sag

I thought at first it might be dysentery,
Then, when that passed, someone suggested tumours
And we looked up diseases, the four humours
(I’m sanguine, maybe even sanguinary),
Said prayers to the Extremely Sexy Mary,
Drank cocoa like the Aztecs, and spread rumours
About our unpaid wages and perfumers.
Something smelled bad, smelled too much like chokecherry.

Then we saw Freya there, French-kissing Zeus,
And Bodhisattva wearing German drag,
Trying to cover up the parts that sag.
I just ignored it all — it was no use:
Without an inkling, and with no excuse,
I told my friends, “Don’t worry. It’s jet lag.”