Seven-point-six Traumbone* leapt up while I slept.
There must have been some thoughts horny in brainpan.
That was followed by moans and groans
Prompted by burgeoning stones,
So the dream won't be laming my hand.

Seven-point-six Traumbone cocked for pouring run.
There must have been some thoughts horny on my mind.
Metaphor mixed: a bounding steed
Springing up like a weed,
Alpenhorn that's bent straight toward the skies.

My low-thread-count bedding set to serve as coarse spittoon.
On cusp of erupting--can't hold it at bay.
Bubbling, swelled inundation--a big splat soon,
From bag zooms frothing of whipped latté.

I had mounted Dyan Cannon in my reverie,
Just before Cary jumped her, in '64.
Gams are wet, but they will dry.
When my Traum ends, again I'll rise
Full of octane, and primed to pump some more.

*Traum: dream (German)