The Swiss Just Do Whatever

like masturbating their doink-doinks

deep in rural France

in the shadow of Mont Blanc.

Heavy, dependable

and prepared for whatever

the Swiss vago-simulacrum recognizes

as larder

King Hussein and President Fabio,

always just about to touch each other

on their devolved sparkle-offs

and Neil Patrick Harris appreciation pages.

Everyone knows when these bizzarre Swiss cometh

they cometh with fluffy Beatles-like

six packs of shit-covered reindeer

knock-knocking like a bummer.

Glitter is the Swiss Army knife

of the most bedazzlingly ridiculous

emotions: the part just before

the paranoid cheese-maker says,

“Whatever you do in Palm Springs,

don’t yodel”—a most unusual Swiss Miss

mixture of very early skunk and the robotic

sadness of women’s mold

heavy, greasy, dense and low, like

lethargic sea-green gardens

with a buzz overpowering, like

modern outdoor inbreeding.

You know you’re Swiss when,

when foreign visitors ask to see your

chocolate factory, you answer,

“Why don’t you and Hannibal Lecter

just kick out the jams?”

’Cause you know you got the chamber,

the chair,

and Fear Factor.