My son had a blanket he carried about.
All color dragged out of it finally.
It was his totem and breechclout.
It was more real to him than Amy and I.
I took it away once to punish him.
He lay down like roadkill to cry.
But I thought pity should not my duty cloy.
I was very wrong -- but he won't hear me now
when I say "Forgive me, my dear little boy."
The favor of the Lord is great,
but those who do procrastinate
and let in lazy slipshod ways
will find that laxness never pays.
Their former glory will depart,
to leave behind a crippled heart.
No hot water New Year's Day
in the building where I stay.
Dishes washed still full of grease;
how I'd like to break the lease.
But it's subsidized, you see --
All hail Social Security!
Lakes and hills, but mountains none.
Not mystery, but grouse and sun.
The limitless view of a sky undone.
Silos keep the land so prone
like conquerors now all alone.
My childhood was thus loosely sown.
I wondered at the silent trees.
The resonance of bumblebees.
But nothing brought me to my knees.
Until tornadic winds began
and to the cellar we all ran,
hiding under mom's caftan.
At last the thunder does not roll,
and, despite snapped 'lectric pole,
the wet green grass makes me feel whole.
So back to careless ways I dashed;
no distant peaks make me abashed.
A woodland Viking, rude mustached!
I want a new cadence;
the last one's too broke.
It started out solid,
but turned into smoke.
(My voice so refurbished
still tells the same joke.)
I slept, but thought I was awake;
until the Lord my slumber brake.
His words and spirit did arouse
me from my heedless sinful drowse.
Now my waking hours brim
with tenderness that comes from him.
There's leftovers aplenty from Xmas Day extant/I nibble on them so much I feel like a gas plant/Another choc'late orange? A slice of Gouda cheese?/Throw out that turkey dressing -- and dump the eggnog, please!
I shopped at Sears when just a boy/ to get a bike or mitt or toy/and when a suit became a must/they sold me one that didn't rust/Dependable, I always thought/I can't explain their creeping rot/But since I'm so opinionated/I'll say it's hubris accumulated.
In England sugar, fat, and salt/will soon come to a screeching halt/The Brits have taken up the cry/"Eat that stuff and you will die!"/Good luck with that, when fish & chips/means more to them than scholarships.
People keep me in their prayers/or send me cute teddy bears/No one thinks to send me cash/when my health begins to crash/Money cannot cure disease/but it softens ev'ry sneeze.
The well need no physician,
but that is not my case;
although I say devotions,
I droop at rapid pace.
My body now reminds me
how fleeting life can be,
when a wee small virus
doth make a wreck of me!
