I made a fancy dinner
Like they do in Paris, France.
Rose petals and caviar
To step up the romance,
A salad of arugula
(‘Cause kale’s so bourgeois)
And a soup of herbs and lamb compote
Which sounded good to moi,
An entree of duck sauvignon,
A glass of chardonnay
(Which may match well, I sure don’t know
But neither do my guests, so it’s okay),
And all topped off with creme brulee
And fried ice cream served hot.
My only regret for the evening
Was putting them all in a single pot.
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They represent the lollipop guild
And they made sure I knew, the little F***ers.
They sang it so proudly, but I resisted the lure.
I know that it’s just a guild for suckers.
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What in the sheltered blue of dawn
Was in the sunlight brown as fawn
Turned reddish bronze in ochre night
And yellow in the Summer’s flight.
The spectrum warranted by such
Invoked in hearts a feeling much
As was supposed in rumor and buzz
That no one knew just what it was.
Opaqueness faded into clear
As people gathered far and near
To gaze on the whatever thing
Until the spoken truth would ring.
Alas as stanzas came and went,
The verses writ and meter bent
It soon was clear that even I,
The poet, could not identify
Just what in sheltered blue of dawn
Would visably change as all looked on.
This ending fixed inside my head
I thought of a rhyme and went to bed.
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Rubber chicken,
Plastic duck.
The year is over;
That’s just our luck.
Ceramic peacock,
Wooden goose.
Next year is nigh
So I must vamoose.
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I’m in a time vortex
In a failed experiment to get more sex.
Now I’m trapped in 2098 selling Goretex.
2017 could have gone better.
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“Glorify me!”
Yelled the beetle
Before he was squashed
By old Mr. Cheadle.
So if you think you’re important
You’d best think again
Or else be on the lookout
For little old men.
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Some claim my speech invalid
Because my skin is pallid.
Some think you can’t be right
If your skin blends into night.
But what we all agree upon
Be we dark or pale
Is that we’re superior to
The common goose or quail.
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The road is cold and lonely,
The street is chill and bare,
And the temperature is cold
On the abandoned thoroughfare.
The avenue’s deserted
And the frost clings to my hair
As I concisely summarize
That ice is all that’s present there.
The lane’s devoid of people
And our breath hangs in the air.
The thermometer’s relative lowness
Means to be outside few apparently dare.
The cul-de-sac is frigid
And devoid of folk, I swear.
It’s frosted and filled with people
In such quantity as those whom about this poem still do care.
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Chestnut’s roasting
On an open fire,
But you know all about that.
What I don’t know
Is why you thought
Chestnut was a good name for a cat.
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The Daily Travesty 