National Poetry Month: A Nonsense Universe
GALAXY YOKE BOMBARD MASTICATE LUSH VISCOUS
Some say our galaxy’s a feeble joke,
and I’m not one to beat about the bush:
two stellar oxen, fastened by a yoke?
Mythology, to me, is so much mush!
The moon, I guess, is made of white hibiscus!
I never take the storyteller’s bait.
We intellectuals are on our guard:
there’s no such thing as ‘destiny’ or ‘fate’.
Don’t follow fables: that way, you’ll fall hard.
I put my faith in science. Am I ‘woke’?
The president says toilets fail to flush.
That SCOTUS justice – is he an old soak?
He’s fond of beer – does that make him a lush?
The others go for substances more viscous,
which take a little time to masticate:
the pleasures which we’re able to retard
feel somehow more intense. Thus, ‘better late
than never’ means, ‘Bill Murrayed’, not ‘Bill Mahered’.
And words have meaning. If you want to ‘stoke’,
it doesn’t mean you’d much prefer to ‘gush’:
and on the whole it’s not as bad to ‘poke’
(because it’s less invasive) as to ‘push’.
Is ‘facial hair’ a neater term than ‘whiskers’?
So, my belief. I’d rather be a plate
than sharp and incomplete – ie, a shard.
It’s nobler if our pilots sit and wait
than if they get the order to bombard.
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