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Dave Terry Poem
Our mother made lasagna,
And then she went away.
She gave us full instructions.
We're left to find our way.
She wrote her notes on baggies,
Of prefabricated meals.
And put them in the freezer,
Under airlock seals.
We tried to follow closely,
All her helpful notes.
The meal looked very tasty,
Until it reached our throats.
The flour I mixed with water,
And dumped into the stew.
But it made it rather gummy,
And very hard to chew
This is not a great beginning.
The future looks real bleak.
We're growing very hungry.
But we've got another week!
Copyright © Dave Terry | Year Posted 2006
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Details |
Dave Terry Poem
A heaving, grieving mass of humanity
All afflicted with the same insanity
To cross the bridge in Brooklyn Heights
For one square foot they impetuously fight
What has caused this hopeless plight?
Love of money and dishonest gain
Is the root of their discontented disdain
These days, without further detection,
Are the last of imperfection.
(Written when NYC had a transit strike in 1979?)
Copyright © Dave Terry | Year Posted 2007
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