I think that I
Shall surely die
Of great ennui
And then I’ll flee.
No more to hear
My ears would cheer.
That would be fine.
If I were a bountiful ground sloth, locked up in a sooty fire flue,
I’d pine and I’d moan, in lusty o’ertones, and if that didn’t work, I’d mew.
I’d wiggle and shake and cause little earthquakes of the loveliest iridized hue,
Scattering drops in puddling plops from the branches of nearby dewed yew.
– to the tune of “Time a Bottle” by Jim Croce
Oh you can find a kitten in the bathroom by the tub.
He’s got his bathing cap on; he’s mewing rub-a-dub-dub!
But when I turn on the shower, this same kitten flees!
He doesn’t want to get in the water and take a bath with me.
– to the chorus of “Epic Moon” by Clare Fader
If I had two pots of tea
(a pot for you and a pot for me)
we would place them upon catapults
(in between doing somersaults)
and launch them afield
to land with great yield
on those we had judged to have other faults.
If I had two buckets of goo,
(A bucket for me and another for you)
We’d carry them both to an upper floor
(I’d choose three but you’d demand four),
And dump them out windows to vanquish our foe
Who we’d observed skulking in the alley below.