Baronhawk's Nest

I, chameleon,
as the creature of reknown,
changing and forming,
matching hues matching tones.

I, chamemelon,
that witty man of guile,
This tale is of a man,
subsumed by his times,
living by wit's end,
surviving by his wiles.
A hunter of comfortee,
booty's explorer,
looking for exploits,
to engorge his member.

I, chameleon,
in the times of rock and roll,
my hair is as Elvis,
guitar strings do I swirl,
my voice as gentle crooning,
a balm to swooning girls,
of their honey I partake,
to the music of the bands,
squirming in Cadillac backseats,
and humping on vibrating beds.

I, chameleon,
in the times of hippies,
to freedom I surrender,
to freelove I give in,
smiling as I perspire,
in the backs of Volkswagon vans,
in the arms of freelove chicks,
eating them as they give me head,
oh! what splendour the hippie life,
swapping partners witout care.

I, chameleon,
in the times of feminists,
marching through the streets,
fighting for female rights,
after tiring in the days,
giving encouragement in the nights,
comforting strong females,
I don't care if they are on top,
for I come not as a man,
but as sexual partner on equal terms.

I, chameleon,
in the times of Agogo,
twirling my arms,
in the dance akimbo,
bellbottoms I sport,
sideburns I lampooned,
all in the guise,
to strand aside agogo's girls,
the wiggling of their hips,
beneath the thumpings of mine.

I, chameleon,
in the times of McCarthy hearings,
standing with hollywood beauties,
protesting their innocence,
the first amendment we protect,
our right to express and believe,
communist reds they might be,
but all colors look the same in bed,
blondes, brunettes and raven haired maidens,
whatever haircolor top or bottom to them I ministrate.

I, chameleon,
in the times of disco,
strapping on white shoes,
and dancing to the rhythms,
My hips aswaying,
my groins athrusting,
ensnaring mini skirted disco chicks,
athrashing upon dance floors,
apumping within through the music,
writhing upon them like Travolta.

I, chameleon,
in the times of anti-war,
chained together to protest,
shouting "not bullets but bread!",
lounging my sleepy head,
upon the mounds of sweet delight,
later on after making bail,
we protested by making love not war,
again and again I rammed,
into the tightness of Eden's earthly paradise.

I, chameleon,
in the times of Vietnam drafts,
firstly I dodge this terrible terrible draft,
seeking due comfort in females anti to war,
hiding in their sweet smelling closets,
partaking of them in their parlour,
but later I gave up,
surrendering to the draft,
to look after the livelihood,
of the working girls of Thailand and Vietnam.

I, chameleon,
in the times of poetic discourse,
that resurgence of the arts,
in New York and Chicago cafes,
being straight I stayed away,
from girlchilds of Lesbos and gay gay men,
but the female poets are poetically,
my prey and trophy's specimen,
avaunt into sweet dipthongs rhyming to the beat of drums,
the tamborine to signal my poems's stiff climactic pronounce.

I, chameleon,
in the times of spring break surfing,
living in endless summer,
certainly has its merits,
the first in my list,
the shedding of clothing by balmy summer,
exposing the many many delights,
cleared for me to partake,
arrayed are those thonged creatures,
playthings for my tounge.

I, chameleon,
in the times of rapping dudes,
my name was sparky mike,
with reversed cap and attitude,
girl groupies I tore asunder,
exposing them to merriment,
to the scratchings of the records,
spinning upon turntables,
as I rapped my mike athunder,
wenching on and under the tables.

I, chameleon,
in the times country western,
John Denver I emulate,
along with Willie Nelson,
a stetson on my head,
a guitar I gently strum,
my sweet sweet western drawl,
melts girls hearts and all,
a bronco I be riding atwisting and aturning
on haystack in barnyard stall upon a farmer's daughter saddled.

I, chameleon,
in the times of big-bike riders,
in biker's leather all clad,
atop a swinging Harley Davidson,
a sunglass shading my sight,
a shotgun in saddle bag,
beauteous biker chicks I pursue,
winning them in races and arm-wrestling match,
riding them across statelines and in motels cheap,
just in case they are severely underage.

I, chameleon,
in the times of street racers,
owning imported or muscle rigs,
souped up to the nines and digs,
in illegal races I ran,
sweeping prizes and winnings,
filling up my extra times,
filling holes in racer chicks,
faster! faster! the engine hums,
as the pistons struggle to rev in.

I, chameleon,
of past and future times,
doing my duties,
to repopulate the earth,
reorganizing human genes,
and partaking the sweets,
loving natures wonderful hills,
its gentle slopes,
wooded dells,
and riverine valleys.