It may be true, but then again, may not,
as some of those who preach with 'possum grin
so blithely say, that all our woes are sin-
derived and sin-contrived and therefore fraught
with meaning metaphysical, whose cure
be merest faith in Jesus, who away
doth take our sin, and with it every gray
and heavy hour, and give us joy for sure.
Myself do find this of the truth but half,
for though sin's reign is drear, yet not implied
should be the Man of Sorrows must have died
in error, for he died without a laugh.
Bear witness, all ye get of prophets wild:
it was on Jesus' griefs his Father smiled.
* * *
Garbage spills forth from my sleeve
the red dog barks!
my ear cowers
does he sniff my arm, whereon
the putrid baked potato skin lies in wait?
yesterday's chowder malevolently anticipates
tonight's french dressing
against the rape of the radishes
worse than death, my cucumber virgin
the dog's tail grins as he mops the floor
with salacious caninity
my nose is blue
I cannot swallow the rancid Gainesburgers
drowning in a sea of enzymes
* * *
In order to form a more perfect house,
We must put gloves on every mouse,
And for our staid, conservative cat
A sporty, new Tyrolean hat.
The dog must wear a brass-rimmed monocle
In order to read the Morning Chronicle,
And our parakeet, though never so vain
Shall whistle us “Heigh-diddle-diddle” again.
And for our little baby sweet,
A chocolate musk ox for him to eat –
It grieves me to make the neighbors so sad;
You don’t think, my dear, we’re really mad?