You could, of course, wait
for my video, but think
of the meantime—of the centuries
you’d waste, trying to turn
your own gluteus maximus
into the metaphor every asshole
in America would want
for its only squeeze. Yes, I’m
 
aware they don’t rhyme
all the time. That’s why
I’m sitting here
in the self-help section, sandwiched
between the biggest books on buns
I’ve ever seen. Sorry
 
can’t sign those. But
I can promise you similes
for Vanna’s teeth, synecdoches
to make Cher part of a black hole
larger than herself, and a personification
even for Geraldo.