The part of school that's worst is writing lists
Of words my classmates just don't understand.
Ces't tres facile, but dull -- I wish I'd missed!
Much better, yes, but still, to me, quite bland
Is science class, where we must try and do
Experiments, and study factors grand.
The best for me, and also maybe you
Is more creative than the boring others
And I can draw, and I'm allowed to, too!
(with minor metrical assistance from Stanley)
Oh, wow! You mean that you're allowed (with Mother's
permission, I assume) to draw a gun?
Perhaps it's just a squirt gun dual with brothers.
Or maybe where you live, you don't have run-
ning water, and you really mean you git
to pump the handle on the well? How fun.
Well, I would much prefer to do my bit
with lobster, lobster bib, and butter drawn,
Enjoying lobster meat while dipping it.
Stanley E. Anderson
I too enjoy to nibble shrimp or prawn
Or feast upon most any crustacean
And lick the carapace clean, 'til all is gone.
The crayfish, here, on most any occasion
Is the preferred delicacy. They're swell!
Others, to eat them, require great persuasion.
But are they crayfish, or crawfish, do tell?
In the argot of creole Louisiana,
One spelling or the other serves as well.
Martin H. Booda
But as for me, I wouldn't call them manna,
All legs and shells and eyes on stalks -- I shudder
And make my sandwich -- honey and banana
On whole wheat bread, with crunchy peanut butter.
A glass of milk -- oh, 'tis a snack divine!
(But sticky, so it makes me gulp and stutter.)
But far the best, the food for which I pine --
Clam chowder (the New England), thick with 'taters,
A loaf, some butter, wine -- now we may dine.
Vera A. Nazarov
Our pick of wine? Or shall we ask the waiter's?
Perhaps a Cabernet from Sauvignon
poured swirling down into our crystal craters.
A glass of Chardonnay might set the tone:
"A white with seafood," so tradition talks.
We'll wait, and leave the choice to the "garçon."
Well, hmm..., no wine yet from the cellar stocks.
Let's sneak downstairs and see what he's about. --
Oh, horrors! Look! He draws it from a box.
Stanley and Angelee Anderson
For meals less fine or when the wine rack's out,
I'll settle for a metal can of beer
Or, for that matter, porter, ale, or stout.
Good taste ordains that glass contains our cheer,
With malty beverage poured from vitreous jug
Or bottle, be it brown or green or clear.
But when I'd rather sip than chug-a-lug,
I totter down to tavern, order fresh
From cellared cask, a draught in frosty mug.
Within the public-house, good friends may mesh
To renew auld acquaintances, catch up
With gossip or just press the flesh.
Oft times are friendships, or much more, o'er cup
Or glass or mug begun or amplified.
The milk of human friendship is a savory sup.
True, a grouchy drunkard is occasionally spied.
And drink has spawned more than one melee.
But eyes are loving, e'en those that are pied.
Martin H. Booda
But, pie-eyed, meaning too oft goes agley;
Communication suffers with dull wit,
'Til only slip 'twixt brain and lip we see.
Once mouth is opened, what will come of it?
Spirits imbibed, often the truth will out,
Though frequently the 'out'ing will not quit.
Still, balance and true moderation shout
That riposte and true wit may be engaged,
From the oiled tongue of most any lout.
On t'other hand, one oft becomes enraged
Or lachrymose when one is in one's cups--
The heavy toper might better be caged.
The worthy drinker imbibes as he sups
Creating no unpleasantness or scenes.
No dancing on the table, no chuck-ups.
Wise Socrates (and Plato) spoke of means,
Of balance, moderation in all things...
'Sides, with a beer gut, you can't zip your jeans.
Vera A. Nazarov
And after one too many, darling flings
discretion to the wind in(deed!) and song.
Married, one is more mindful what one sings!
Searching, to be sensual is not wrong. . .
Be mindful who you touch and how you fall,
in case that someone special comes along.
Marriage can be the sweetest joy of all
on earth (though I have known some who went sour)
with one who holds you (dear)--and comes when you call!
Decreed it was in time's first blooming hours
that trees adorn the earth's new maiden head,
as hair from Eve's inviolate beauty flowers.
Thus, shining forest from earth's crown o'erspread --
'til sin-grown hands of man and tool defrock,
and beauty fell and earth untress. Instead
of glory, shame, and smirch, and baldness mock.
The hewing made of man's own soul a stump;
and he is timbered by the rape of the lock.
Our palm tree now is nothing but a clump
of shavings on the ground; a scattered dream
that waits to waken at the heav'nly trump.
Planted right up against the house, 'twould seem
the previous owners did not have a clue
that it would shoot up far above roof beam,
and to the house, potential damage do.
Oh, for the day when man and nature live
no more at odds, and fit a plan more true!
The palm tree can no longer its shade give
No shady rest provide? -- no longer tree,
But felled and fallen low waits to relive.
A shadow of its former self only
Sawdust to dust; yet hopes in Heaven's ray
of Son, whose rising bids all shadows flee.
And nature, long subjected to decay
Immortal grows in that new morning's sun.
The palm will rise on its own Palm Sunday.