The Name of My Bride

It matters not whether what lies
at the bottom of the lake is hard
boiled eggs, marizpan, car batteries,
the Senator, a Biblical abomination,
the handbook for your exercise
equipment, the loch ness monster,
even a good dose of lichen. It’s less
about what is there than what you
can prove is there, what you can
make a tentful of rubes believe
sits between their butts in seats
and a bed of silt that stretches
from here to, I don’t know, the corned
beef signifier in the early filmography
of Tinto Brass. Shift that ten-gallon
hat, Charisma, get yourself a seat
on the heavenly dredger, ‘cause
it’s just about time for those saints
and their balls of wings and eyes
to march, mud-covered, on in.