the boys i mean are not refined by E.E. Cummings is my favorite poem (and this link, unfortunately, decides to use capitalization that isn’t in the original poem). I love it because it’s more or less a rhyme that is a step up from a dirty limerick until you hit the end of the poem and the magic happens that raises it to real poetry:
they speak whatever’s on their mind
they do whatever’s in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance
That last line always gets me. I feel excited about the power of those words.
Here’s to shaking mountains! Here’s to lacking refinement! ;-)
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