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 drowning
Under 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 tile
To 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 multitude
Of 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 smushed
With the newspaper?
Did I trod on a nest?
Have I disturbed your larva?!
The Bolshevik RevolutionThere have been many upheavals in our history;
Most of them fail, but occasionally
One 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 hardships
And commands from the sword
Led workers to rise
Against their old lord.
Nicholas II sent troops to crush them,
But his troops, they were angry,
So they up and left him
And said, "We pledged you our loyalty, but you never did say
That 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 held
That 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 girlfriend
Gave this note to me,
I hope he doesn't find that out
Or 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 code
She wants me to pass on?
Or barring that,
It's something that
She thinks would turn me on?"
Well, if thoughts like that go through her head,
There's something pretty wrong.
Regardless, there are a few things
On 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 mincemeat
Has 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 say
Is stated simply thus:
You can have a lot of friends in life,
HorsesI could give you the old cliché
Galloping accross the open range,
Ripples of sinuey muscle playing accross their flanks.
But that's the cliché.
I have not once seen
Horses running like that;
Mostly, I see them standing around,
Or nuzzling the curious hands of young
Children at the fair.
Occasionally, I see them galloping around an oval track,
But this doesn't hold a thing to the
The saddest part is that
They are so accustomed to this soft living,
Their taming is so complete,
That they don't even know that there is something better,
And that that wild, free expanse of
Hinterland should be sought after and fought for.
But if you were in their place,
Wouldn't you rather accept your lot and get regular meals
Than have to forage those thousands of acres to stay alive?
GatsbyRich people are funny.
They go to parties, get wasted,
And never really make friends.
At least, not *real* friends.
Sure, they make dinner friends,
Golf and polo friends,
But they never really get close to anyone.
Heck, even married couples aren't
Sadly, this was the truth
Of the twenties,
A time of never-ending indulgences and intrigues.
The money, the apathy,
"Hmmm... I wonder what that
Guy down there is doing?
Hey, he must be the
One my wife is sneaking off with!
Oh, wait, I don't *have* a wife.
I should go marry a girl so I can
Yell at her for cheating on me!"
CeruleanGleaming cerulean, the winter sky shines,
Heating us up not one bit.
As it grows colder, we whine and complain
About these old gloves which don't fit.
"Nothing, no, nothing of mine fits anymore,
And least of all holds hot air in.
My fingers are freezing, my toes just got frozen,
And my face is cut up by this wind."
"Oh when, oh when will I ever get home
And get myself warmed up again?"