Goose taxi

I saw what I thought was a swan,

Gliding on the lake, it was soon gone.

I told my ornithological friend.

It was no swan, but an interesting trend.

It was a goose with a roach on its beak.

Hence the black dot that I did peek.

Cockroaches here are wont to traverse

Waters with geese to not drown or worse.

The beak is the best place not to get eaten,

Their survival skills just can’t be beaten.

Holding on tight they can’t be dislodged,

The geese become taxis; fate can’t be dodged.

Smart as a roach is what I now call my sis

(Pretty as one too, that makes her hiss.)


Kids today

O tempora o mores, by Cicero,

Every adult since, in his tow:

“They’re just drinking their lives away,

Always lazy, always on holiday!

No respect, no manners, no class,

Just sexting all day and growing tall grass.

When I was young, it wasn’t like this,

Politeness, work, not one day amiss.

I pulled my weight, not like they can,

Born in a house I built, such a man.”

Nostalgic lying or remembering wrong,

Affects over 30s, comes before long.

Kids learn more than the ones who came before.

Ecological thinking raises their score.

When you’re twelve and your main worry,

Is the extinction of all things furry,

Climate change or the trash vortex,

I salute you and your cortex.

If you claim they have no will to work,

Unpaid internships, such a fun quirk.

When it’s refused, which is just smart:

“I should’ve known, all lazy at heart.”

Not happy to be slaves is what I hear.

Not lazy; a sailing sensibility buccaneer.

Age and nostalgia go hand in hand,

Might make your senses go unmanned.


People and problems, that is true,

Some problems just are not for you.

Understanding those is good,

Like if you’re rich, I know you would,

Imaginize not having food,

Being in a nasty mood.

It’s not that hard and takes a while,

Like walking in their shoes a mile.

I’m asking you for empathy,

Not asking you to empa-Me.

Empathy for everyone,

Even when it’s not that fun.

Gender dysphoria, wrong kind of pants,

Insom-amnesia, a mind of ants.

War torn home, no hope to live,

Privilege that’s yours to give.

Imagine it and you might see,

It’s like travel, but wholly free.

Close to nature

I always wanted to live in the wilds.

Like animals with their innocence of child’s.

It’s just that it’s often cold and wet,

And, if not, then covered in sweat.

It’s not fun and you might even die,

That’s why I got an implant in my thigh.

It covers me with artificial fur,

Soft and warm and scented like myrrh.

I can sleep, in winter or fall,

Under an oak, not cold or wet at all.

I found a foxhole in its old roots,

Stuffed with hair and over ripe fruits.

The foxes adopted me right there and then,

The scent of my fur was the perfectest ten.

Not just close to it, I’m all the way in.

Thanks to implants hidden under my skin.

Cloud burners

If you pay your attention to the sky,

You might see things missed by a fly.

White fluffy clouds sometimes turn black,

It’s the cloud burners and their sneak attack.

They sneak up with their tinderbox,

Strike some sparks with their flinty rocks.

They set the cotton candy clouds on fire

For reasons unknown, maybe it’s ire.

The clouds burn up and blacken all the way,

Then they cry for the rest of the day.

That’s the description of why it rains.

The product of clouds and their grisly pains.

When they stop crying is when they die,

Crisp and cinder gone from the sky.

Contagious feelings

It’s kind of funny that feelings are contagious.

All of them, like being happy or courageous.

Want someone to smile? Do it yourself.

They will put their boredom on a shelf.

Plus, if they laugh it’s double the fun,

Like having two instead of one sun.

Want them to be mad? Get irate.

It’s not nice, but it works pretty great

In stirring up crowds to hate someone,

Few angry words: the hate soup is done.

If you cry you can make me sad,

That’s also life and it won’t be bad.

You might also get a hug or two,

In case of tears, they’re good for you.

Contagious feeling is why I think

That, no matter how low you sink,

Humanity is together in a way,

Amazingly collective, even to-day.

British and American

Sometime it’s spelling, like color and center,

These are easy to see when you enter.

Sometimes it’s words like biscuit and cookie,

They won’t open up to a rookie.

Sometimes the stress on garage or ballet,

One little difference makes you stray.

This can all be learned with time,

Like, eventually, one can like lime.

And it’s dialects, both are right,

It’s slightly insane to try to have a fight.

But, there’s one thing I object.

Illogical thinking that’s incorrect.

The date system in the big U.S.A.

Is one irrational concept puree.

Day, month, year, or the other way around,

Makes good sense, logical and sound.

From the big to the small and backwards again,

Scale of logic: A nice, round ten.

Why would you darn-diddly have it like

Month, day, year? A mental mis-hike.

Just to confuse people with a good brain?

Or for logical people to feel some pain?