Monthly Archives: January 2015

Falling Short

Why do bad things happen
To good people,
And good things to bad people too?
I’ve discovered the answer
To this age old question
And I’m happy to share it with you.

See, God was still young
Before existence existed
And was bored by living alone,
So the deity started
A 30-day challenge,
His Godly skills for to hone.

The first couple days
He made the earth,
Light in the night and the day.
By day six he’d made
All the animals too,
And even made the color gray.

So after six days
He was no longer inspired
And thus ended his personal goals
Nine days short of such makings
As justice and Santa
And a good hair care line for Trolls.

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Fine Dining

It’s Fry Day at Sir Spatu-lot,
My city’s favorite dining spot.
You buy your steak by ounce or pound
Or even by the name of the cow.

If you eat ten burgers, you don’t have to pay.
That is just the Spatu-lot way.
If you eat fifty burgers in one sitting
You get to park in the handicapped spot, which is fitting.

It’s been ten years since my last Fry Day.
I was banned for bad behavior, you might say,
For when they asked what I wanted to eat
I asked for a salad without any meat.

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Outliers

Red roses for passion.
White roses for peace.
Yellow for friendship
And renewing your lease.

Yet why I am here
Nobody knows,
For what is the meaning
Of a camouflage rose?

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Miscommunication, Baby

I cried all night,
I cried all day,
But still these parents
Won’t go away.

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Missing You

Far and wide I looked for you,
O’er mountains and rivers and bogs.
I fought off a dragon and two rabid dogs
And the rest of your family too.

I questioned the oracle up on the ridge
And she asked, “Where did you see her last?”
And so I pondered the memories past
And went home to look in the fridge.

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The Anarchist’s Haiku

Dark banana peel
Right beside the “wet floor” sign:
People watching spot.

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I Am Chicken

I am chicken:
Hear me roar.
Feeding me
Is a daily chore.
Every fancy
Meat you see
Tastes exactly
Just like me.

I am chicken
With great legs.
I’m a prolific donor
Of my eggs.
Which came first
I cannot say,
But people ask me
Every day.

I am chicken,
But do not scoff:
I can outrun you
With my head cut off.
Call me cowardly
And you’ll have strife indeed.
You’ll awake to my call
And be paid with my feed.

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