Fate, ye tempting mountebank,
Whether spurious or not,
Can prove to be, to our free will,
A specious asymptote.
Atropos, supercilious,
Cuts our time; We must defer.
My mom paid me a dollar
To write this poem, so blame her.
Fate, ye tempting mountebank,
Whether spurious or not,
Can prove to be, to our free will,
A specious asymptote.
Atropos, supercilious,
Cuts our time; We must defer.
My mom paid me a dollar
To write this poem, so blame her.
Filed under Poems
By my sister you first became “Mother.”
Then you made me, the brother.
Dad helped with that too, and how-do-you-do,
We’re a family like no other.
But this family really started
When off your mom was carted
To the delivery room, then bang-clang-kerploom!
From her body you departed.
And so this day we do
Take time to celebrate you.
Not with cheap paper hats (we are cooler than that’s),
But with a birthday choo-choo boogaloo.
(Figuratively speaking).
So whether weather is warm or cold,
You we will will hug, kiss, and hold.
So have a wonderful year, and just to be clear,
Our love for you never grows old.
Filed under Poems, To the Reader