Drone
I’m not a soldier or a bee, but when I’m passing through
You might mistakenly think me a drone, for what I do,
More than a bagpipe ever did, is blow and bloviate
And buzz so much–I do not kid–you’ll wish the kinder fate
Of early death, deafness at least, enveloping with fog
Your tender soul, until it’s ceased–my tedious monologue.
I spy one creepy old fly . . .
Thanks but No Thanks
If you really know a Good Thing
when you
see it,
(it seems to me) you ought to have
a better idea of
how to
be it.
It’s not that I’m not struck by
the scintillation and dazzle of your
super-fantastic-ness
in person,
it’s just
that I can’t imagine it’s possible
for anyone who is just like you
to worsen.
What I mean is that for someone
who truly seems to
think he
is God’s Gift to Everybody and
stupendous and miraculous, you sure
are
stinky.
Just a shell of his former self . . .
Creep
A plethora of pleasures
A deluge of delights
A heap of halcyon happiness
Awaits your days and nights
If you will only let me
Pour on you lavish love
I’ll gladly stop the nastiness
That you accuse me of
Art-Colored Glasses 