MarshDeputy marshall Washank was in charge of the bog.He usually sat by the bank,Thinking grand thoughts,But doing nothing.The mosquitoes loved him.While he sat, eyes closed,Frogs ate flies, then drowned,While newts looked on.Old Washank sat there day after day,Slowly rotting into nothing.And the frogs kept drowningUnder his unwavering, unseeing gaze.
Ants on a LogAnts,Small little black ones,Scurrying across the kitchen floor.They've found something.I must have dropped a piece of candy,Or spilled a bit of soda yesterday.There they go,Racing over the ceramic tileTo grab a piece of sugary goodness.Then, back along the tiles, under the door,And out into the yard.They can slow down, now;They're in the grass.I can see their home from the window.It's an old, rotting log from an old rotting tree.Its surface simmers and roils with the multitudeOf little bodies that traverse the wood.It almost seems to be alive.Come to think of it, it is alive.Slowly, almost imperceptably, it wriggles toward me.Unsure, I stand there,Thinking I may have simply imagined the movement.But, alas, I was correct the first time.The log is now a gelatinous creature bent on my destruction.Was it that small anthill that I crushed last week?Or the scout ant I smushedWith the newspaper?Did I trod on a nest?Have I disturbed your larva?!"Uh-oh...oh
The Bolshevik RevolutionThere have been many upheavals in our history;Most of them fail, but occasionallyOne will succeed which startles the world;The Bolshevic's revolution was one of this fold.Russia was grand; ruled by a great Czar.He waged the Great War, sending troops wide and far;They pulled back to Moscow, and many did die,But still they stood there, not one of them shy.But the deaths and the hardshipsAnd commands from the swordLed workers to riseAgainst their old lord.Nicholas II sent troops to crush them,But his troops, they were angry,So they up and left himAnd said, "We pledged you our loyalty, but you never did sayThat we must get ourselves killed without any gain!"Once Nick had been kicked, new rulers were picked,But soviets didn't like them at all.Although they were jailed,Every one of them heldThat the new guys liked land for themselves.After the soldiers again turned against their own leaders,And peasants claimed squatters rights,The Bolshevic party won dominance and de
God...God, Yahweh, Allah, these are the most used forms.But what, exactly, does he do?Read books all day to worms?It almost seems that way to me,When I look at what's been happening.Gruesome images on TV;Death's cruel axe awakening.
Mincemeat PieHarry Potter's girlfriendGave this note to me,I hope he doesn't find that outOr murdered I will be."Mincemeat Pie", the letter read,"Baked by Ron's good mother.""I wonder what this letter means?"My little grey cells wondered."Could it be some kind of codeShe wants me to pass on?Or barring that,It's something thatShe thinks would turn me on?"Well, if thoughts like that go through her head,There's something pretty wrong.Regardless, there are a few thingsOn which I'm very strong.First comes the filling,Which I avidly hate.It looks like rotted cow dung,And makes you puke if ate.Pumpkin pie, or blueberry,Are more favored on my plate.But the worst thing about mincemeatHas gotta be the taste.It makes me very sick inside,Just like when I eat toothpaste.At once it makes my head start spinning,And to the bathroom run.It's like a narcotic and a laxative,Packaged into one.The second thing I have to sayIs stated simply thus:You can have a lot of friends in life,And
HorsesI could give you the old clichéOf horsesGalloping accross the open range,Manes streaming,Ripples of sinuey muscle playing accross their flanks.But that's the cliché.I have not once seenHorses running like that;Mostly, I see them standing around,Chewing hay,Or nuzzling the curious hands of youngChildren at the fair.Occasionally, I see them galloping around an oval track,But this doesn't hold a thing to theCountryside.The saddest part is thatThey are so accustomed to this soft living,Their taming is so complete,That they don't even know that there is something better,Somewhere,And that that wild, free expanse ofHinterland should be sought after and fought for.But if you were in their place,Wouldn't you rather accept your lot and get regular mealsThan have to forage those thousands of acres to stay alive?