An assault with no sense of compunction
We enter this perilous junction
It’s so disappointing
When missiles are pointing
And fueling electile dysfunction

I feel like it’s better to listen than talk
And faster to run, though it’s wiser to walk
A field to be tilled
Or a cup yet unfilled
For this is the way of the unsculpted rock

The tilt of the earth turning evenly orthodox
     Seasons are changing observing the equinox
               As hours of light
               Are on par with the night
     The leaves will soon gleam with the color of Goldilocks

There’s a partisan grinding an ax
Over aliens snacking on cats
And a nifty new notion:
Postpartum abortion
So let’s blame the checkers of facts

When judging the tree by its fruits
The bamboo proponent imputes
             That this grass’s great power
             Lies not with its flower
But deep in its rhizomes and roots

There’s a middle-aged mother who’s said to be frisky
She knows that the quest for true wisdom is risky
But rather than scripture
She holds an elixir
A cocktail of hormones and breast milk and whiskey

In stillness the senses grow pleasant
With inner abundance no peasant
The coin of the realm
He receives from the elm
And spends every ounce in the present