What a brittle metal
That poor, old forge did make.
He made a little kettle,
But about the spout did break.
And water spilled on fire,
And clouds of steam did rise,
And I felt I must inquire
If he'd felt it was wise
To settle for a kettle
Made of such brittle metal?
Oh, no, no! Don’t you get your gun.
It’s not that kind of wicked fun.
It’s just that rough and tumble stuff
Where one can say, “Enough ‘s enough!”
And go your separate ways, knowing
That the fight is still ongoing,
And it’ll never really be done
‘Cause it’d never truly begun.
Row me into nowhere --
The middle of the sea --
To drift without a care
As waves roll under me.
Row me into nowhere,
That vacant stretch of sea,
To watch blue skies, so fair,
For an eternity.
Row me into nowhere;
I'll bob upon the waves.
Let me make it my lair:
Free of rascals and knaves.
Row me into nowhere
When all the good are gone;
I'll breathe that salty air
Until my soul moves on.
There once was a renowned psychoanalyst
Who found childhood events were always the catalyst.
A patient who lived happily
'Til a recent tragedy,
Learned it all stemmed from thoughts as a neonatalist.
There once was a master of the satiric
Who was known for being quite satyric.
What a difference "y" makes:
Handshakes to heartaches.
He was cancelled as his words won panegyrics.
There once was a player of the banjo
Who took out his act as a roadshow.
A tour by demand,
(The demand of his band.)
Crowds felt the same and suggested he bongo.
There once was a Taoist from Taipei,
Who knew all one could know of the Way.
When asked for directions,
He'd state his objections,
"The way that can be stated is not The Way."
Sometime not too distant,
There will come a day
When you will return to
A frequent state of play.
When that day comes around,
You'll have lost all concern
For the adults' belief that
Frivolity must be spurned.
You'll take to tossing balls
And climbing up the walls,
Just like you used to do
When you were one or two --
Before that human zoo
Got its hooks in you.
Slowly, silently, the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.
At noisy readings an angry old poet
Would pick up one of his books and bestow it.
When they would snicker
He'd wish his book thicker,
For it would flutter in air when he'd throw it.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 