The Way of The Fox

Posted on by Beleaguered Servant

Babbling carelessly down
The garrulous way of the fox,
He found himself far from the town
Where populi wasn’t that vox

He asked for another concern,
But there were no others about —
His mind could find no place to turn
Without a convention to flout

For the wood and the leaves and the dirt
Are commonly thought of as shy
As their message is not that overt —
Though you can find it out if you try —

Warbling thoughtlessly through
The pilloried ways of the past
He found that last shall be first,
And the first aren’t likely

To last

Schrödinger’s Cat

Posted on by Beleaguered Servant

So, I was here watching Schrödinger’s cat,
Now it’s both dead and alive:
How it has managed this, I do not know.
Somehow, though, it did contrive

So both to be and to not-be at once
Putting poor Hamlet to shame:
So the old Law of Non-Contradiction’s
Broken, and I am to blame.

So in the middle of Animal Rights
Physics, and Theater too —
I’ve violated immutable laws
What’s a poor blogger to do?

 

Waves of Pestilence

Posted on by Beleaguered Servant

Engulfed in waves of pestilence
That’s raining down upon me
Contagion and concupiscence
In lust that’s all around me

If everything I knew was ever
Turned into a play;
I’d leave the throttle open wide
And move to Santa Fe

And there, I’ll build a picket fence
Of biological defense
Whatever there might be expense
To live in my wan

Pallescense

Hole (An Autocorrect Poem)

Posted on by Beleaguered Servant

Your presence gives me hole —
As though a week was lifted from my shoulder —
I kosher it’s just a trope,
The kind we entertain as we get okra —

You wear it like a diary
That sparkles in the sketch,
Inline to you for everything
And you donut ask why —

Your live, it gives me hope:
It’s like the kiss that signature Spring
The hole you place

In everything

Tertullian Would Have Loved It Here:

Posted on by Beleaguered Servant

Just not the famous one.
The one who would have liked it
Would have tastes second to none.

He’d love the river and the mills,
The green and woody rolling hills;
He would like, I guess, the rain
Which is, these days, my morning pain.

And if Tertullian was mayor
I think he’d see, from over there
In Carthage, where he used to fare
That our roads are in disrepair.

Perhaps to fix them he’d would be
Wrapped up in obscure heresy
Of the old Montanist kind
But, oops, I think that I’ve been blind
Cause I forgot
That he was not
That Tertullian at all
Some other one I don’t recall

Since I don’t live in Carthage, I
Will end this post
And say goodbye

…

(..)