Tag Archives: Good

Poetry > Humans

When, in poems, rhyming’s done

Most people think its lots of fun

But in day-to-day conversing

I notice the trend of fun reversing.

It’s as if, when someone speaks

And you interject a word like “creaks”

The custom of matching final phonemes

Becomes less fun than it, in poetry, seems.

So whenever people get in a huff

When my replies happen to rhyme with their stuff

I’m glad to use this blog as a replacement

For talking to people outside of my basement.

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51% And Growing

What if, with perfect certainty, you knew how to be good. You

Would have no ills or evils. With this great power would you

Live your life accordingly, an angel we’d admire,

Or is flawless, certain perfection a goal to which you’d not aspire?

Now if perfection weren’t certain and ’twas painful to act well

Would you trade your Earthly pleasure for 50/50 odds of Hell?

Would you suffer every moment if it might bring future joy

Or would you say “be happy now” and make pleasure your toy?

The point that I am making is in our uncertain years

Where our good or evil instincts are affected by our fears

That we might be a villain who believes that we are just

Or perhaps a clumsy angel whose good intent is all a bust.

If you’d be truly evil or would be extremely good

Then here’s a course of action that to take I think you should:

To seek a path of certainty. Through thinking you will find

More often the results you seek are those which you will find

And if another does you wrong seek not to cast your blame

But know that if you thought like him you’d probably do the same.

Hero, villain, victim are alike a future you

So why not think and weight the coin that judges all we do?

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Life Without Makeup

Chapped lips, dry skin,

Hair without a bobby pin,

Baggy pants, hairy pits,

A shirt that hides any sign of tits,

Spotty face, mustache line,

Eau de toilette called “big ass pine,”

A house that others call a sty:

Just another great day of being a guy!

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One Quiet Night

Some days you don’t have the blues.

Some days you don’t watch the news.

On days like these, at least for me,

It’s tough to write a travesty.

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Whipper Snapper

Timmy was a cheerful slave
Who snapped his fingers all day long
He could not sing or whistle or dance
But his walking and snapping were their very own song.

Paul, he was a slave driver
Who snapped only his whip.
He didn’t want to hear music
Nor any back-talking lip.

Timmy and Paul were rivals of sorts,
Trying to out-snap the other,
Paul whipped and screamed, Timmy snapped and dreamed
And neither cried “Uncle” or “Mother.”

And Paul’s arm got tired
Of all the abuse
And forced the whipper
To stop its use,

But Timmy’s hands
Never wore out
For his snaps gave him strength
Paul knew nothing about.

So which man was the slave?
The snapper serene
Or the whipper, obsessed
With the need to be mean?

No man is a slave
If he choose not to be,
For the consent of the oppressed
Is what makes a slave be.

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