There’s a monk by the name of St. Francis
Who strolls in the forest and prances
       While whispering words
       To the mammals and birds
Who religiously fall into trances

It’s not that my truth is superior
Or that your way of life is inferior
We both would agree
And a blind man could see
That we value a vibrant interior

To live a good life that’s effective
You have to be somewhat selective
Your mind isn’t frozen
Your thoughts can be chosen
The truth after all is subjective

There once was a club swinging Swede
Determined to pillage and breed
But sweet miss O’conner
Defended her honor
Refusing to welcome his seed

There once was a red-bearded Viking
To the emerald land he went hiking
And trying to be wily
Snuck up Miss Reilly
But his salmon was not to her liking

There’s a viking name Erik the Erring
On a voyage he lost all his bearing
Instead of New York
He landed in Cork
And alone he became hard of herring

There’s a skeptic I know who remains inconvincible
Certain that logic is something invincible
Loathe to accept
The secrets well kept
Unable to pinpoint the primary principle

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

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