A burned child dreads the fire,
They say,
But, as day follows day,
We see that he
Grasps the hot coal
To his soul,
Again and again,
Despite the pain.
The coal burns
And the child turns
Away,
(Perhaps for a day)
Or so.
Yet back he will go,
To that place I know,
Truth to tell,
All too well.
There was a young man named Jones
Who’s habit it was to throw stones.
He lived in a glass house,
Along with his spouse.
That unfortunate young man named jones!
In search of nothing
We bring
The world crashing down around our ears.
All our self-made fears
Come to fruition,
For those who seek for pedition
Come face-to-face with a zero
In their own fractured glass.
His bed learned to speak.
Ere the week
Had passed,
That bed was only good
For firewood …
There was a young man named Nool
Who made friends with a ghastly ghoul.
The local vicar, named Fred,
Shook his grey head,
And called him a blithering fool!
There was a young lady named Coral
Who was extremely stern and moral.
She dated a man named Bill
Who asked “I wonder will …?”
It led to quite a quarrel!
Wires going into your head.
Are you dead
Or on life support?
Perhaps I aught
Not to intrude,
For it is rude
To stare.
But there,
To my surprise,
In front of my eyes
Is an actual cyborg,
Who does on technology gorge.
Pale ghosts.
Stale scent.
Notches in bedposts.
Copybook blotches.
Too many to remember.
May to December
It didn’t happen because
She was
A prude.
“I wasn’t rude”
he thinks
As he drinks
Bitter beer alone,
His hand itching for the telephone.
