The race

I downloaded a rather sizable patch for a game, during which the download speed stuttered and leaped in an unforeseeable manner. It reminded me of a race.

 

There goes the signal and the race is on!

The contestants are away, vanished, gone!

#1 takes the lead with gigantic leaps

#3 is advancing in graceful sweeps.

#2 left stuttering behind in the dust,

#4 still at the start line, thinking, nonplussed.

#1 cruises on, victory secure

The only thing left now is to ensure-

At the start line, a flash of light!

#4 disappeared, completely out of sight!

The crowd goes crazy!? Where is #4?

At the finish line already? Hear them roar!

The download contest is done, winner: #4!

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new high score!

Sheep on the field

Just your average bicycle ride,

See some sheep, very woolly, two-eyed.

Come to a halt for a nice, quick pause

Observe the sheep and their chewing jaws.

That one over there is just ruminating

Chewing with the intent of swallow-for-sating.

The small one is rolling around in the grass,

Fluffy and white, its cuteness first-class.

And that one there is… in a white lab coat?

Holding a wrench and making a note?

That thing that it’s building, hold on…

Is that a rocket made of wood and nylon?

Defense against wolves and political aggression?

That raises one, and just one question:

How does one use a wrench with hooves?

One of the most complex of fine-motor moves.

Energy revolution

Our energy board was quite inventive

As we needed a new clean energy incentive.

The think-tank took only thirteen days,

Lots of coffee and a very secluded place.

They realized a new power source

Completely untapped of course.

Acne or zits, as we them know

Could be harnessed for hot water flow.

A new business emerged overnight

Zit extraction sites popped up left and right.

Unemployment sank, emissions as well,

The worst side was an unpleasant smell.

People benefited from their defective genes,

And finally, an actual use for teens.

Woodillac

My shed is equipped with tools and power,

My secret, personal hickory tower.

I’m there more than unconscious in bed,

Creating with my hands is my mental bread.

Converting branches into spatulas and spoons,

Stumps into chairs with inlays of moons.

I listen to the wood, it tells me what to do,

Or at least gives me an opaque, grainy clue.

Sometimes simple, like a spatula from birch,

Or a bit harder, an oaken observatory perch.

This last project, though, it got me confused,

When racking my brain, I think it got bruised.

A car you can drive? Excuse me P. O. Wood?

Shouldn’t it be metal? I think it should.

But it couldn’t hurt, and I like the work,

Now I have a car but I’m going berserk.

I have to decide on how to name the bloody thing.

Woodillac? R.M.S. Teak-tanic. The Oax-wing?