Nannerl Mozart: Fashioning a Single Response

“I hope, my queen, that you are enjoying...health and that now and then...you will sacrifice for my benefit some of your important and intimate thoughts...” Wolfgang Mozart to Nannerl. Vienna, August 14, 1773.

I hope, my sensitive ass, that you receive my sacrifice
pawing, pouncing, snorting and horsing around in courts
and/or any other low place where His Highness allows
idle tongues to wag begging for thoughts—yours, 
like any ass’s, come at the end where an asinine
demand traditionally & charitably exists
though marginally on a page; namely, in the P.S.,
a flatulent last blast which you, dear Arse,
were so wont to deliver in the practice room—
crepidos ventris which resembled the squall
from a brass section squatting on a hill
of Bavarian dung. My dear little Beetlebomb,
even the stoutest nose (how related the word
nose is to noise!) would have flinched, as do
equine-nostriled Viennese when they possess
during Sommerhitze an especially keen sense
of smell and source, and where a prodigious horn
like yours is small advantage—I digress, however,
from fulfilling your request. Enclosed lie two intimate
thoughts for my donkey monkey, the little A-hole
in a cherry red suit, the great Wunder Arse at the keyboard,
der Herr Dr. Wiggly Butt in the parlor but not the boudoir
(or? yet?), the twin to my own brown braying heart. No. 1:
Shit in your bed and make a good mess. No. 2: Remember
the sad smell of your own sweet queen, Lick My Arse.

Ontario Review #52