Dyslexic Banana Poem
There he hangs amidst his bunch,
tempting me to have him for dinner,
filling me with guilt about how I feel
about this living thing with its yellow skin.
My Buick’s also yellow, a sight to see.
It was bought almost new in 2001.
The car covers the miles like a rocket ethereal,
the banana’s king sliced atop a bowl of oatmeal.
My Buick is a world-beating car,
the banana in the night is a shining comet.
I love them both dearly
and worship them annually.
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