The Swiss just do whatever
like masturbating their doink-doinks
deep in rural France
in the shadow of Mont Blanc.
and prepared for whatever
the Swiss vago-simulacrum recognizes
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,
and Fear Factor.