Archive
04/13/11 - (1)
Spring, Etc., Et Al.
These bovine days of spring run away with the dish's spoon, And I'm left holding the bag lady's gloom, In the croker sack I usually reserve for my ophidian blues.
What's come over me, I can almost not understand, Even as I see that what's come under me Is about to overtake the plan I have for the overzealous undertaker,
The one who makes all things possible profoundly impossible, All things right improvidentially wrong, All things two-by-two schismatic, bifurcated, infinitely half-lived.
These ovine days of spring-loaded, unsprung springtimeliness, When I'm feeling bah-bah-humbug black sheepish About the bleating of my heartstrings, played by the second fiddler,
And the sky seems, at all eons, to be falling out of sorts, With Chicken Littlestein's entire megillah of ten lost minyans, Of which I'm yet a member in irreverent bad standing, davening...
These ursine days of spring find my spirit bullish on its bear market, Determined to divest my fleshly estate of its fool's-gold bullion, Stampede every last bull from my unebullient mind's china shop,
Get my outhouse in ordure, twice and for all and forevermore, So that before the canine days of summer bark up the wrong dogwood, I can nail my porcine self to myself and oy-nk like a stuck pig.
04/13/11 - (1)
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