Forth into the forest straightway
All alone walked Hiawatha
Proudly, with his bow and arrows,
And the birds sang round him, o’er him,
“Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!”
Sang the robin, the Opechee,
Sang the blue bird, the Owaissa,
“Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!”

Up the oak tree, close beside him,
Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
In and out among the branches,
Coughed and chattered from the oak tree,
Laughed, and said between his laughing,
“Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!”

And the rabbit from his pathway
Leaped aside, and at a distance
Sat ***** upon his haunches,
Half in fear and half in frolic,
Saying to the little hunter,
“Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!”

But he heeded not, nor heard them,
For his thoughts were with the red deer;
On their tracks his eyes were fastened,
Leading downward to the river,
To the ford across the river,
And as one in slumber walked he,

Hidden in the alder bushes.
There he waited till the deer came,
Till he saw two antlers lifted,
Saw two eyes look from the thicket,
Saw two nostrils point to windward,
And a deer came down the pathway,
Flecked with leafy light and shadow.
And his heart within him fluttered,
Trembled like the leaves above him,
Like the birch-leaf palpitated,
As the deer came down the pathway.

Then, upon one knee uprising,
Hiawatha aimed an arrow;
Scarce a twig moved with his motion,
Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled,
But the wary roebuck started,
Stamped with all his hoofs together,
Listened with one foot uplifted,
Leaped as if to meet the arrow;
Ah! the singing, fatal arrow,
Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him!

Dead he lay there in the forest,
By the ford across the river;
Beat his timid heart no longer,
But the heart of Hiawatha
Throbbed and shouted and exulted,
As he bore the red deer homeward,
And Iagoo and Nokomis
Hailed his coming with applauses.

From the red deer’s hide Nokomis
Made a cloak for Hiawatha,
From the red deer’s flesh Nokomis
Made a banquet in his honor.
All the village came and feasted,
All the guests praised Hiawatha,
Called him Strong-heart, Soan-ge-taha!
Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-go-taysee!

aerial ladder truck, amok, amuck, awestruck, bad luck, black buck, black duck, bruck, buc, buck, by luck, canuck, chuck, cluck, cold duck, collet chuck, cruck, dabbling duck, delivery truck, diving duck, donald duck, druck, duc, duck, duk, dumbstruck, dump truck, dumptruck, fire truck, fish duck, fishbach, fluck, fslic, garbage truck, garden truck, get stuck, give ****, gluck, good luck, grucche, guck, hand truck, hockey puck, huck, hucke, icing the puck, ill luck, kachuck, kluck, kruck, kruk, kuc, kuck, kuk, ladder truck, lake duck, lame duck, laundry truck, luck, lucke, luk, mandarin duck, megabuck, moonstruck, mruk, muck, musk duck, naugatuck, nuque, panel truck, pickup truck, pluck, potluck, puck, queer duck, raybuck, roebuck, ruck, ruddy duck, schmuck, schtik, schuch, schuck, sculk, sea duck, shmuck, shuck, sitting duck, smuck, snuck, sound truck, starbuck, starstruck, struck, stuck, stucke, suc, ****, suk, summer duck, thunderstruck, trailer truck, truck, tuck, tuque, unstuck, vhsic, wild duck, wnuk, wood duck, woodchuck, wruck, young buck,chuck-a-luck, yuck, yuk, zuck, zuk

(song lyrics)
Verse 1:
Now I can’t go fishin’, ‘cuz ya’ sold my rod and reel
Can’t go snow-racin’, ‘cuz ya’ sold my snowmobile
And I got flaws - that’s for sure - and sometimes run amuck
But the final straw that I can’t take: Ya’ sold my pickup truck

Chorus:
You can burn the house, shoot my dog and stomp my ol’ guitar
But when you sold my pickup truck, well, Honey, ya’ went too far

Verse 2:
I didn’t care when ya’ bought that stuff on TV’s QVC
Or ‘cause ya’ always thought of me as your private Money Tree
Or catalog-orderin’ ever’thing from within ol’ Sears Roebuck
But I’ll be danged if I’ll sit still since ya’ sold my pickup truck!

Chorus:
You can burn the house, shoot my dog and stomp my ol’ guitar
But when you sold my pickup truck, well, Honey, ya’ went too far

Verse 3:
So I went and saw a gypsy gal, and a curse on you imposed
To put sand in your chewin' gum and runners in your ***** hose
And all your clothes and accessories to never, ever match
And chiggers in your bed sheets - so you’ll always have to scratch!

Chorus:
You can burn the house, shoot my dog and stomp my ol’ guitar
But when you sold my pickup truck, well, Honey, ya’ went too far

Verse 4:
I seen ya’ last Saturday night at Bubba’s Bar and Grill
The image of you in stripes and checks remains within me still
And them red chigger welts upon your nose and face
Tells me that the gypsy curse is workin’ ever’ place!

Chorus:
You can burn the house, shoot my dog and stomp my ol’ guitar
But when you sold my pickup truck, well, Honey, ya’ went too far

I PASSED along the water's edge below the humid trees,
My spirit rocked in evening light, the rushes round my
knees,
My spirit rocked in sleep and sighs; and saw the moor-
fowl pace
All dripping on a grassy *****, and saw them cease to
chase
Each other round in circles, and heard the eldest speak:
Who holds the world between His bill and made us strong or
weak
Is an undying moorfowl, and He lives beyond the sky.
The rains are from His dripping wing, the moonbeams from
His eye.
I passed a little further on and heard a lotus talk:
Who made the world and ruleth it, He hangeth on a stalk,
For I am in His image made, and all this tinkling tide
Is but a sliding drop of rain between His petals wide.
A little way within the gloom a roebuck raised his eyes
Brimful of starlight, and he said:  The Stamper of the
Skies,
He is a gentle roebuck; for how else, I pray, could He
Conceive a thing so sad and soft, a gentle thing like me?
I passed a little further on and heard a peacock say:
Who made the grass and made the worms and made my feathers
gay,
He is a monstrous peacock, and He waveth all the night
His languid tail above us, lit with myriad spots of light.

it's not the large things that send a man to the madhouse

a woman, a
tire that's flat, a
disease, a
desire: fears in front of you,
fears that hold so still
you can study them
like pieces on a
chessboard...

it's not the large things that
send a man to the
madhouse. death he's ready for, or
******, ******, robbery, fire, flood...
no, it's the continuing series of small tragedies
that send a man to the
madhouse...

not the death of his love
but a shoelace that snaps
with no time left ...

The dread of life
is that swarm of trivialities
that can **** quicker than cancer
and which are always there -
license plates or taxes
or expired driver's license,
or hiring or firing,
doing it or having it done to you, or
roaches or flies or a
broken hook on a
screen, or out of gas
or too much gas,
the sink's stopped-up, the landlord's drunk,
the president doesn't care and the governor's
crazy.

light switch broken, mattress like a
porcupine;
$105 for a tune-up, carburetor and fuel pump at
sears roebuck;
and the phone bill's up and the, market's
down
and the toilet chain is
broken,
and the light has burned out -
the hall light, the front light, the back light,
the inner light; it's
darker than hell
and twice as
expensive.

then there's always ***** and ingrown toenails
and people who insist they're
your friends;
there's always that and worse;
leaky faucet, Christ and Christmas;
blue salami, 9 day rains,
50 cent avocados
and purple
liverwurst.

or making it
as a waitress at norm's on the split shift,
or as an emptier of
bedpans,
or as a car wash or a busboy
or a stealer of old lady's purses
leaving them screaming on the sidewalks
with broken arms at the age of 80.

suddenly
2 red lights in your rear view mirror
and blood in your
underwear;
toothache, and $979 for a bridge
$300 for a gold
tooth,
and China and Russia and America, and
long hair and short hair and no
hair, and beards and no
faces, and plenty of zigzag but no
***, except maybe one to **** in
and the other one around your
gut.

with each broken shoelace
out of one hundred broken shoelaces,
one man, one woman, one
thing
enters a
madhouse.

so be careful
when you
bend over.

No, no, no, Dirtbreath. I say we call the big one an elephant,
and the small one a mouse.
                                             Eve

I'm sure red's a better color for me.
                                              M. Monroe

She has a face that could sink a thousand ships.
                                              Ulysses

N­ow that Hawking's dead, I'm the smartest
guy on Earth.
                                             D. Trump

You're too Jung to understand the Superego.
                                              S. Freud

No. You keep it. I have enough.
                                              B. Graham

Are you sure that's the Delaware?
                                              G. Washington

E=Mc Donalds.
                                              A. Einstein

Go pound salt.
                                              Gandhi

Wha­t day is it?
                                               Roosevelt

T­hat's one small.... oops!
                                               N. Armstrong

I don't remember any of my dreams.
                                               M.L. King, Jr.

Hey, John, I can see your house from up here.
                                                Jesus

Beaches, fields, streets, hills. Did I leave anything out?
                                                W. Churchill

Yeah, yeah, yeah, of course I wrote 'em all.
                                                 R. Starr

It's just too big to wrap your brain around.
                                                 S. Hawking

Don't lose your head. This won't change a thing.
                                                  Robespierre

Before I was fined, I walked the line.
                                                   J. Cash

Could you lengthen the title and shorten the book?
                                                  Tolstoy'­s editor

What if we put the workers on conveyor belts?
                                                   H. Ford

I have a splitting headache... hmmm, interesting.
                                                   ­Oppenheimer

I've never liked orange juice.
                                                    N. Brown

Really? You want to blame me?
                                                    ******

He stings like a butterfly.
                                                     S. Liston

#timesup #metoo
                                                     A. Boleyn

Mr. Watson. Come here. Spare me a dime?
                                                      Bell­

Roebuck said he'd be back in ten minutes.
                                                      R­.W. Sears

To be or to do be do be do.
                                                      Shakes­peare/Sinatra

When you call me Whitey, I get cotton pickin *******.
                                                      E. Whitney

We're the team to beat!
                                                      Toro­nto Maple Leafs

Don't call me a Mother!
                                                      Mo­ther Theresa

Is that a Cuban*?
                                                      M. Lewinsky

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
Rescue my Castle, before the hot day
Brightens the blue from its silvery grey,

(Chorus) “Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”

Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you’d say;
Many’s the friend there, will listen and pray
“God’s luck to gallants that strike up the lay,

(Chorus) “Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,
Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads array:
Who laughs, Good fellows ere this, by my fay,

(Chorus) “Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”

Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,
Laughs when you talk of surrendering, “Nay!
I’ve better counsellors; what counsel they?”

(Chorus) “Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”

An Imitation Of Macpherson’s “Ossian”.


Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance
through the mist of time. In the twilight he recalls the
sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear with trembling hand.
“Not thus feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers!”
Past is the race of heroes! But their fame rises on the
harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind; they hear
the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in
their hall of clouds. Such is Calmar. The grey stone marks
his narrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests: he
rolls his form in the whirlwind, and hovers on the blast of
the mountain.

In Morven dwelt the Chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His
steps in the field were marked in blood. Lochlin’s sons had
fled before his angry spear; but mild was the eye of Calmar;
soft was the flow of his yellow locks: they streamed like
the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul:
his thoughts were given to friendship,—to dark-haired
Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords in
battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla:—gentle alone
to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona.

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o’er the blue waves. Erin’s
sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to
combat. Their ships cover the ocean! Their hosts throng on
the green hills. They come to the aid of Erin.

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies. But the
blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The sons of Lochlin
slept: their dreams were of blood. They lift the spear in
thought, and Fingal flies. Not so the Host of Morven. To
watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their
spears were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs: they
stood around. The king was in the midst. Grey were his
locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not
his powers. “Sons of Morven,” said the hero, “to-morrow we
meet the foe. But where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin? He
rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of our coming. Who
will speed through Lochlin, to the hero, and call the chief
to arms? The path is by the swords of foes; but many are my
heroes. They are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! Who
will arise?”

“Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed,” said dark-haired Orla,
“and mine alone. What is death to me? I love the sleep of
the mighty, but little is the danger. The sons of Lochlin
dream. I will seek car-borne Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the
song of bards; and lay me by the stream of Lubar.”—
“And shalt thou fall alone?” said fair-haired Calmar. “Wilt
thou leave thy friend afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is
my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, and not lift the
spear? No, Orla! ours has been the chase of the roebuck, and
the feast of shells; ours be the path of danger: ours has
been the cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling on the
banks of Lubar.”—”Calmar,” said the chief of Oithona,
“why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of
Erin? Let me fall alone. My father dwells in his hall of
air: he will rejoice in his boy; but the blue-eyed Mora
spreads the feast for her Son in Morven. She listens to the
steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread
of Calmar. Let her not say, ‘Calmar has fallen by the steel
of Lochlin: he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark
brow.’ Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why
should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? Live
Calmar! Live to raise my stone of moss; live to revenge me
in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above my
grave. Sweet will be the song of Death to Orla, from the
voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of
Praise.” “Orla,” said the son of Mora, “could I raise the
song of Death to my friend? Could I give his fame to the
winds? No, my heart would speak in sighs: faint and broken
are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall hear the
song together. One cloud shall be ours on high: the bards
will mingle the names of Orla and Calmar.”

They quit the circle of the Chiefs. Their steps are to the
Host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim-twinkles through
the night. The northern star points the path to Tura.
Swaran, the King, rests on his lonely hill. Here the troops
are mixed: they frown in sleep; their shields beneath their
heads. Their swords gleam, at distance in heaps. The fires
are faint; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but
the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the Heroes
through the slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when
Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It
rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade. His spear is
raised on high. “Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of
Oithona?” said fair-haired Calmar: “we are in the midst of
foes. Is this a time for delay?” “It is a time for
vengeance,” said Orla of the gloomy brow. “Mathon of Lochlin
sleeps: seest thou his spear? Its point is dim with the gore
of my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine: but
shall I slay him sleeping, Son of Mora? No! he shall feel
his wound: my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber.
Rise, Mathon, rise! The Son of Conna calls; thy life is his;
rise to combat.” Mathon starts from sleep: but did he rise
alone? No: the gathering Chiefs bound on the plain. “Fly!
Calmar, fly!” said dark-haired Orla. “Mathon is mine. I
shall die in joy: but Lochlin crowds around. Fly through the
shade of night.” Orla turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft;
his shield falls from his arm: he shudders in his blood. He
rolls by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall:
his wrath rises: his weapon glitters on the head of Orla:
but a spear pierced his eye. His brain gushes through the
wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves
of the Ocean on two mighty barks of the North, so pour the
men of Lochlin on the Chiefs. As, breaking the surge in
foam, proudly steer the barks of the North, so rise the
Chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din
of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his shield;
his sons throng around; the people pour along the heath.
Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes
the spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind.
Dreadful is the clang of death! many are the Widows of
Lochlin. Morven prevails in its strength.

Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen; but the
sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of
Ocean lifts their locks; yet they do not awake. The hawks
scream above their prey.

Whose yellow locks wave o’er the breast of a chief? Bright
as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair
of his friend. ’Tis Calmar: he lies on the ***** of Orla.
Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the
gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is still a flame.
It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in
Calmar’s; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. “Rise,”
said the king, “rise, son of Mora: ’tis mine to heal the
wounds of Heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of
Morven.”

“Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with
Orla,” said the Hero. “What were the chase to me alone? Who
would share the spoils of battle with Calmar? Orla is at
rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of
morn. It glared on others in lightning: to me a silver beam
of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora; let it hang in my
empty hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could not save
Orla. Lay me with my friend: raise the song when I am dark!”

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four grey stones mark
the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When Swaran was bound, our
sails rose on the blue waves. The winds gave our barks to
Morven:—the bards raised the song.

“What Form rises on the roar of clouds? Whose dark Ghost
gleams on the red streams of tempests? His voice rolls on
the thunder. ’Tis Orla, the brown Chief of Oithona. He was
unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not
perish. Nor thine, Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son of blue-
eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy
cave. The Ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear
thy praise, Calmar! It dwells on the voice of the mighty.
Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy fair
locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch of the rainbow,
and smile through the tears of the storm.

useless objects purchased
by sexless people.
objects they make love to
the only way they know how.
they bring neighbors
and ****** are spilled
from under dressing room doors
onto shoes designed for
this sort of marathon.

your new blouse: ******
your bracelet: true love

pharamone spray
in bottles smells
like commercials
selling eternal youth
and animal lust
which your body
used to sweat
onto a mattress
with no sheets
in an apartment
with no power.

by Ramond Carver**

You don't know what love is Bukowski said
I'm 51 years old look at me
I'm in love with this young broad
I got it bad but she's hung up too
so it's all right man that's the way it should be
I get in their blood and they can't get me out
They try everything to get away from me
but they all come back in the end
They all came back to me except
the one I planted
I cried over that one
but I cried easy in those days
Don't let me get onto the hard stuff man
I get mean then
I could sit here and drink beer
with you hippies all night
I could drink ten quarts of this beer
and nothing it's like water
But let me get onto the hard stuff
and I'll start throwing people out windows
I'll throw anybody out the window
I've done it
But you don't know what love is
You don't know because you've never
been in love it's that simple
I got this young broad see she's beautiful
She calls me Bukowski
Bukowski she says in this little voice
and I say What
But you don't know what love is
I'm telling you what it is
but you aren't listening
There isn't one of you in this room
would recognize love if it stepped up
and buggered you in the ***
I used to think poetry readings were a copout
Look I'm 51 years old and I've been around
I know they're a copout
but I said to myself Bukowski
starving is even more of a copout
So there you are and nothing is like it should be
That fellow what's his name Galway Kinnell
I saw his picture in a magazine
He has a handsome mug on him
but he's a teacher
Christ can you imagine
But then you're teachers too
here I am insulting you already
No I haven't heard of him
or him either
They're all termites
Maybe it's ego I don't read much anymore
but these people w! ** build
reputations on five or six books
termites
Bukowski she says
Why do you listen to classical music all day
Can't you hear her saying that
Bukowski why do you listen to classical music all day
That surprises you doesn't it
You wouldn't think a crude ******* like me
could listen to classical music all day
Brahms Rachmaninoff Bartok Telemann
**** I couldn't write up here
Too quiet up here too many trees
I like the city that's the place for me
I put on my classical music each morning
and sit down in front of my typewriter
I light a cigar and I smoke it like this see
and I say Bukowski you're a lucky man
Bukowski you've gone through it all
and you're a lucky man
and the blue smoke drifts across the table
and I look out the window onto Delongpre Avenue
and I see people walking up and down the sidewalk
and I puff on the cigar like this
and then I lay the cigar in the ashtray like this and take a deep breath
and I begin to write
Bukowski this is the life I say
it's good to be poor it's good to have hemorrhoids
it's good to be in love
But you don't know what it's like
You don't know what it's like to be in love
If you could see her you'd know what I mean
She thought I'd come up here and get laid
She just knew it
She told me she knew it
**** I'm 51 years old and she's 25
and we're in love and she's jealous
Jesus it's beautiful
she said she'd claw my eyes out if I came up here
and got laid
Now that's love for you
What do any of you know about it
Let me tell you something
I've met men in jail who had more style
than the people who hang around colleges
and go to poetry readings
They're bloodsuckers who come to see
if the poet's socks are *****
or if he smells under the arms
Believe me I won't disappoint em
But I want you to remember this
there's only one poet in this room tonight
only one poet in this town tonight
maybe only one real poet in this country tonight
and that's me
What do any of you know about life
What do any of you know about anything
Which of you here has been fired from a job
or else has beaten up your broad
or else has been beaten up by your broad
I was fired from Sears and Roebuck five times
They'd fire me then hire me back again
I was a stockboy for them when I was 35
and then got canned for stealing cookies
I know what's it like I've been there
I'm 51 years old now and I'm in love
This little broad she says
Bukowski
and I say What and she says
I think you're full of ****
and I say baby you understand me
She's the only broad in the world
man or woman
I'd take that from
But you don't know what love is
They all came back to me in the end too
every one of em came back
except that one I told you about
the one I planted We were together seven years
We used to drink a lot
I see a couple of typers in this room but
I don't see any poets
I'm not surprised
You have to have been in love to write poetry
and you don't know what it is to be in love
that's your trouble
Give me some of that stuff
That's right no ice good
That's good that's just fine
So let's get this show on the road
I know what I said but I'll have just one
That tastes good
Okay then let's go let's get this over with
only afterwards don't anyone stand close
to an open window

They ask, "What's the sweetest thing that's happened to you"?
I would have to reply, "It started when I was two".
That is when I, Mother, sister and brother,
went to live with our Grandpa and Grandmother.

They both sacrificed, from that day forward,
working long, hard hours, always undeterred.
To give us a home and happy memories.
It couldn't have been better, for Mom and us three.

Mom worked evenings at the Sears and RoeBuck store.
Grandpa at the publishers, working on the printing floor.
Grandma changed jobs to the school cafeterias,
so when we were home from school, she could be near us.

Grandpa was our dad, in our hearts and minds.
Growing up with two Moms was a terrific time.
Yes, living with our Grandparents was a special world.
I grew up to be a very thankful girl.

What's the sweetest thing that has ever happened?
It started when I was two, and has never slackened.

Sears and Roebuck
dreams 
for less than
a sawbuck
pictured on every page.

Wait fer the stage honey
before you parts with your
money 
honey,

Then we sailed down 
the 'ssippi 
to Orleans 
met a Southern belle
name of Dolores
played poker 
drank mash 
'til we ran out of cash
and took Shanks's pony
back home.

The mortgage fell due 
on the ranch house and
spread,
the cattle was out on the range 
with old Red,
most of my kinfolk was a prayin 
in town
thinking that Jesus would look kindly 
down on them 
misguided men for the most part 
hearts in the right place,
but iffen your face
don't happen to fit
Ya gets your 
*** out of here or be quick on the draw card and quit.

it's life, but
hard as ****
made easier no doubt
by
Sears and Roebuck.

The Baby Boomer Generation
was between 1946–1964.
Currently today between
the ages of 57 and 75.
So that would make most
of us still alive and kicking

No, two people experience,
their generation the same.
It depends upon your age
going through the experience
Facilitates our gauge.

These is what I remember along my way.
Details, I leave out the baby boomers will know what I’m talking about.
One of 8 kids I’ve seen many layers
These recollections are from many players
This memory train stops ,Ends 1979

My generation as a child;
Buying our clothes from the
Sears and Roebuck catalog
Weekend chores morning till night
Sunday church, youth fellowship group
A treat to play baseball in the street
First set of wheels a Banana Bike
with high handlebars, Ten Speed bike
We road for miles but never lost our way.
Made and played with Paper, Airplanes,
Lincoln Logs, Click Clacks and Jack’s
We dug holes to make a Mini Golf Course

I sold fruit from our many trees For lunch
money cafeteria food 4 fruits NO sac lunch,
We were resourceful, earning our own way.

The boys had a Paper Rout
The girls Babysitters. I bought my clothes, by the age of 12 with babysitting money.
And happy to doit.!NO more sister’s things
The embarrassment of hand me downs

We covered our School Books with
Brown paper, trash bags, creative Kids used
comics from the newspaper cool!
We walk to school and back, never alone

We dial a rotary phone plugged in the wall.
Dial zero for operator to connect your call
Yellow page phonebook to find numbers.
chores and homework done, before fun!
Boys collected Baseball Cards MadeCrafts

Junior High; The quarterly Shop classes
Boys Only,
Auto Shop, Wood Shop,
Electronic Shop and Plastic Shop
The boys sold what they made
for a pretty penny(expensive price)$$

Drivers Ed
In the classroom and in the Car
The schools had four Cars;
4 kids and the Instructor

Home economics
Girls Only;
learn to Sew, A-line Skirt, Gym Bags
with Embroidered Names, one freestyle project. Anything from Turning jeans into a Jean skirts. Imagination creation,
Original design Homemade crafted gifts

Cooking Class had 7 mini Kitchens
Nutritional well-balanced meals, but my favorite Cake Baking tips and techniques.
We had a lemonade Stand in the summer
Sold Fresh lemons off your fruit trees.
Baked cookies, cupcakes, and cakes as well.

Every meal was made from scratch
Feeding 10 meant more than one batch.
We ate Dinner as a Family every night
Us kids, brothers and sisters were tight
We went to Drive-in, Movies in our PJs
We got our information from Encyclopedias
We waited for the Milkman, and the Helm’s 
Whistle Blow, Diaper Services at the door.
We listened toTransistor Radio on the floor.

My Generation as a Teenager
Bellbottoms and Crop Tops” peace signs”
mini skirts, go-go boots, moccasins beehive
Hair with Flowers everywhere
Bought my First Vinyl Record

Rationing Gasoline;, odd, and even days
By The last digit of your license plate
In 1993 and again in 1997. Gas Ran Out!

Changing the TV channel with the ****
First black and white TV followed by color
FineTune the antenna, rabbit ears for clarity.
We piled in the wood panel station wagon

A Phone Booth on every corner $.10 a call.
The simplicity of it all
Until The Moral pendulum Shifted Society
The shooting of John F. Kennedy
I knows where I was the day it happened
The shooting of Martin Luther King
These two Events shaped our Generation.

The Vietnam war, Kent State Univ. shooting
Our Generation Before
Cell Phones, CDs, ATM, machines, Internet, Pagers, Cassettes Tapes Eight Track tapes
in the car. The swear jar

We barter food, sold eggs Goods,& Serves
Wore Galoshes to school on muddy roads

My generation as an Adult
Neighbors Voted in our garage
Their loving façade was an allusion Mirage  
Never answer “Who did you Vote for”
Airing ***** laundry in public, not smart
VOTING couples screaming, fighting in the street taught me.NEVER talk about;
Religion and Politics. Two Deadly Battles
The price, too High, to lose, your happy life

Gypsies gave daisies At the Airport
Make Love Not War, Peace bohemian style
California rock ‘n’ roll bands in the city
And to the sand, Artistry in the air
Music flourished,Bands played everywhere

The Doors, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd,
The Beatles, , Crosby, stills, Nash, Young
Simon and Garfunkel every day fair
Woodstock a whole other scene
To describe it, you had to be there

Drugs,;mushrooms, ***, psychedelics, acid
Roxy, & Rainbow Club where the weirdos went or Chinese tour buses,
filled with people dressed in 60s wear
Men wore a camera around their neck, Hawaiian shirt, black Horn rimmed glasses, Ladies poodle skirts with Peddicoats and white button down blouses and sweaters
in the 1979. I kid you not. strange people!
I wanted to ask what movie they saw that made them think this was California style?

Car Races on Van Nuys Blvd.
Parking with your boyfriend
Teen center held under 21 Dances.
The San Fernando Valley(Valley Girls)
Really said “for sure”. “Totally awesome” “whatever” “ not even” “ As If”

Orange Grove and walnut trees as far as the eye can see. The city Tarzana was named after Tarzan. South of the Boulevard 4 miles from Michael Jackson’s house. Modest home. Difference as night and day

Curiously, I never thought we were poor
We were rich in love, and that was more than enough. Help a friend in need
Because it’s the right thing to do.

people were people, Just getting along
Decent folks Kind and Caring,Sharing
God-fearing Christians, Moral Values
Live and let Live. The American Way

The poppie plant blooms to the most beautiful flowers. It is called the Flower of Joy, the colors, the tranquility and how they can absorb you is one of a kind. And when they cut the bulb before it blooms, it bleeds *****.

In the Wizard of OZ, the field to the castle of OZ, was a Poppie field. Where, Dorothy, The Tin Man, The Cowardly Lion, The Scarecrow and Toto, caught a nap.

Alexander the Great used this flower to conquer the world. He gave it to his army to quite the hurting and to help and motivate the fighters from the pain of fighting.

Great Briton used it to control and suppress China and to make money to grow their kingdom.

It was then turned into Morphine and ****** in the late 1800's, legalized and taxed. It came in many forms of elixirs and then turned into big business. It could actually be purchased out of a Sears and Roebuck Catalog, where you could purchase it and get it in the mail. They could get their daily usage along with a syringe for a mere $1.95.

It was one thing of a few things that brought ****** to his knees when they cut the ***** supply to Germany. That stop his drug making for his soldiers that left them useless. His scientist then he invented methadone but it was to late.

In Afghanistan where the majority of ***** is produce, our army has only cut down a few of the poppie fields, only to know it will make it's way to the US. What could be their reason and motivation. Is it to help each economy though blood money.  

In today's world it is controlled by War Lord in the east, the south, and the orient, shipped to many different countries  in many unusually ways. Yet some of it to be purchased by large pharmaceutical companies.  

This innocent beautiful flower, that brings only joy to the eyes has been misused by man since 3400BC believe it or not. The death that it has left behind is uncapable of being calculated.

89 sets of eyes had seen the first eighth
made public, Tobagoan dimes,
then it was 96
I made'em up, bought the whole mint,
and went into serious business,

re-evaluating dime bags, when John D,

Mr. Dee, he
hands me this silver dime, about 1917.
Says he, gimme the Time's

and I'm about to
when into 2022 i-sense, calculualualchange
in time,

on a dime among many, my own dime.
I invested that liberty given me, for using
old news in good ways once used to force
a reading of the rules.

Would there were a Daysman, betwixt us.
would we had this tech back when,
term papers - ended curiosity
or drove home the point to madness,

all
you know, ex
plodes… pop. And if you breathe
another line
per haps it is one of mine, we think

at old printer's devil, filling space, pace.
Skimming troposh-pherical Miramarical,

thought speed past the other way
one
of these days, you said, these days, we
say today. You are safe
where now is today, and not when this whole
lesson in shared pain per gain, proud son,
prior to changes in the rules
- is allowed to lead to gun play

game on. That fast.
The future has me in it from the start/
I have a mind to tell you all I know,
Pro-ver-bee, do be, do, you know

It was an organized mind, rhearranger
of my fingers on these
keys, i-i-I ai ai ai think these keys, were magic

in the beginning, some men trusted in horses,
some men trusted in leasing and releasing
land… who won?

Eh, not o'er yet. EH, they have wakened
a sleeping giant,

yeah, I paid a price to discover that fact.
Dillon, Montana, storefront all johnnyrebbed up.

I lost the best phone I ever owned, with all the
evidence of hoped for things attained
and apprehended with full ready
set for alz-heimlichkeit kriegspeigel- mir-ror

mar-velous. World of 2022. Within Covideo
5G- wiz mom the fridge is 5G

G is for Guidance, child. Traditions do not change
truths. Oaths welded to the guardian's heart,

pow wer wordsssun-ng
choking in dust, as the eagles gather round the
whole idea
-comfort, ease
in security, we exist in air, as words people think
after reading something old,
fifty years, ago, change wa'swift,
an entire jubilee for most all sworn
legit-liga-mental mind made up to be a way for a reason,
oaths, Breach of contract, old school rules, you lie,
you die, before you unveil the secret place, we be, in, I mean,
so help me, God, on the Bible-level
like on TV,
depending on your experience in the realm of words.

You are now a Kierkeyardian Troen Ridder Wannabe.

Some things you may imagine, leave percussion…
- humms al'lowed to fifteen since then,
- that summer with Pattie Maffeo
- whoa, this idea- drum roll
Rudd, Hersey made me up, and I grew up, in here.

-- Phidelity is only secret to those who must hide.
Inside us, outside us, inside me is not inside you.

These are words, these are sense in your head,
more swiftly than the author choses to believe.

Ping, chorus, another one bites the dust.

Isolation in realization that an ifery, an actual
one
real-live ifery situation, with the body environment
alive
and breathing and
comfortable, thanks for allowing that, I bring some
every time I come,
pop
you can't say that. right or wrong, how long is ruled
valid in code any kid in any country can translate.

Who says we saw every thing
change.
When we was young,
faster paster now as then, I swore

as real as any ride I ever imagined alone.
All things are better when you know, though.

A churchyard child bade me listen, you may know
as we grow in knowledge, as a species,
from a phylum
at the core… we can, and have

we can imagine, yes, and have
haps, in pers and mays, hap-pen
happenstance,
Manifest on TV, that
is power to convey a story, requiring
minds with binge-in-Covid-season, after season,
immunity to cliché ¿ make every idle guess reasonate

Hate ain't 'hate when I do that' kinda thing
hate is evil, you know, no idle word, evil
living words can hold any thought a team of two
agree to allow
- spacetime to think-?
G-qualified Art Intuition, this is not ****,
we know it when we see it, what is this thing

we agreed with, this corporate structure,
many many many tiered this tinker toy thing

A Robin Williams seed, I think, Jim Hunt.
What dreams have come.
And we aren't done.
Icahn's history, I was not even in the game.

Here's one, eight lines from go
go
go man
go

gotcha, johnny be good slood
on a legendary curse
into sec-secondcoming.com

justice, sir, I must say, I just ring the bell.

--------------- hello poetry hello world

5G and starlink, if I stay in the green zone//

From Montana, that 5G fridge, messaged me,

my almond milk is out of use by,
did you die?
we know you are old. We will check again.

At random, I assume, my captain's chair,
and survey my realm
- 26 thousand unread emails… how much
- is my pending attention to any one worth?
I rub my stubble and scratch my half year hair.
I oughta get up
and go/ chorus there, and go

I ought get up and go, but I got no place

I'd rather be,
right now, with you… who
stole that from some show, no body you don'
know.

Some things happen,
when you know,
they do… the color does not set the mood

the time
just hasta be right.
mama
mama always wished to know,
when does it end,
when does it end,

electric shock begins, the folding in daze,
folding pages in donated Sears & Roebuck's
catalogues,
to make door stops, to hold ever locked doors
open, for our grand children, wait
and see, in deep dementia, did she mention…

Farm house windows have been boarded up , dilapidated outbuildings , abandoned water well , farm tractor , implements rusted over . Kudzu has blanketed the garden spot , farm bell lies on the ground , silo in need of paint , repairs ..Clover dominates a fertile pasture , once home for many abundant harvest ! Corn , soy bean and sorghum , sweet potato and collards .. Oak trees , well over a hundred years old with twenty years of unchecked leaf debris beneath them . Apple , pear and peach trees are barren .. A once sturdy white picket fence now unkempt  , frail with rusted barbed wire and nails .. The afternoon train still comes through each afternoon . I can imagine that very train taking the harvest produced by this old farm to market . Macon , Augusta or Albany ? A planter is taking a break beneath a Pecan tree with a bucket of cold well water and a ladle , plug of tobacco , and a daydream or two ! The afternoon train delivers the news of the world , a Farmers almanac , Sears and Roebuck catalogue , corn cake for the rabbit dogs , hog feed from a mill in Columbus , thread and quilt patches for Mother . Off it goes , cloud of steam rising above the mighty engine  , the whistle echoing across cotton fields for many a mile ! The link between city and farm , before electricity , telegraph or telephone . The old Georgia my great grandparents knew . Fruitful Summer harvest , painfully cold Winters laboring , scratching out a meager living and at times barely surviving ! I can still hear the crack of leather , braying of mule , firewood being stacked , horses , cattle and the rooster breaking the silence of night , sunrise announcing the new day to a hard working family plus every hamlet along the way ! .

Adventures with an Olivetti

(In which the scrivener violates his rule never to write in the first-person)

My bed was a Sears & Roebuck sleeping bag
And my world headquarters that old MG;
An Olivetti portable processed
My words, my fresh young words, that no one read

I owned more books than clothes, and only those few
That could be stowed in the passenger seat;
I fancied myself the new Rod McKuen
And I wasn’t - but I remember the road

When the world was new, adventures every day
And I miss that - but mattresses are nice

Where can one shop for Christmas if not at Sears:
J. C. Higgins sporting goods, Craftsman tools
Kenmore sewing machines, wonderful toys
The greatest candy counter in the world

And, oh! the best of all:

The little electric trains behind glass panes
Travelling across a cotton-snow Christmas land
From one tiny plastic village to another -
The Santa Fe Railway on tinplate tracks

A little boy’s dear dream for Christmas day
(But after an hour his parents drag him away)


Good-bye, Sears; thanks for the childhood memories.

~



deep in the recesses of slumber
dreams are influenced by external forces

we pulled the mattress into the living space
for a little impromptu camping
and being in such proximity to the dog beds
we found their licking and scratching and chewing
to be near unbearable

white noise fan blades breaking up the roar

it was a dream
at first the high hatted chef seemed normal
presenting plates of deliciousness
when at once he grabbed an ice pick
and went to insanely hacking on a large frozen rectangle

it might as well have been a mobster ******
chips flew and the pointed tip plunged deeper and deeper

my eyes opened to a steady rhythmic licking
as the oldest dog lay against the Stearns and Roebuck

And I have seen paradise before
It was a heaven of ideological
proportions
located
on the junction
of childhood and interstates
of man and youth, with marble floors
and distant speakers echoing drops off of
cell phone booths
and older people
selling things for us to buy
to find ourselves happy in the moment
deep cascading waterfalls

Is this heaven?

When a child it's all you see
the white and pedicured purity
of a waxed granite floor,
the impersonal monotony
feeling a soul in a world unknown
the closest thing to dreaming
Old T.Vs selling like hotcakes
buy it while it's new!

Gameboy games, pokemon on the tele
silent in the face of some strange musician
playing unworded tunes you'll recognize later
their focus-grouped chords left somewhere in your mind
for you to hum when bored

Everything was perfect, then?
was it?

Those same malls don't sparkle
no more

maybe it's just the grime of life
blocking the mirrored measure of my childhood soul
lost amidst the echoes
the sweet music of truth
bouncing off of the uncolored walls
a send-off of my youth

Maybe when we go back, one day
the walls won't be quite so grey
they'll be power-washed with light,
shine better than ever before,
nothing to buy but our happiness
somewhere in those hallowed halls
searching those windows into other lives
hoping to find the key to our soul
to leave this silly Sphere and
Roebuck
our boat back out the sliding door
-windows
back out into the real world,
no longer dreaming.

It was gunfighting at the OK
which was ok for them

Badlands and bad men,

ten bucks for the sheriff,

God fearing and good men
ploughmen and settlers
sodbusters
cropsharers
all wearing Levi's
bought from
Sears and Roebuck

another ten bucks for the sheriff,

the law always wins in the end.

I traverse the dense pinewood by rote
Through wiry entanglements
Crossing red dirt roads
Engaged to no one , respectful to every
briar , berry and stone
Filled with the music of forest rain
Rummaging fauna , damp floor fora
of bird , sweet breath of multitudinous
country flora , roebuck and windswept
question , hardwood umbrella stops along
the way in timely , unshaken order
Content in where I belong
To close the circle for awhile and belong* ...

Ruled his hare'm
nsync with trumpeting Donald Duck,
(loud enough to arouse Daisy),
the former cartoon character,
a pensive searing black kind Roebuck
heir to a fortune hauling trash and *******,

whereby dust bunnies repurposed
into environmentally friendly
electric kool aid acid tested batteries
powering many an electric truck,
which wolfed, kick/jump started
and guzzled down
synthesized reconstituted quality product.

An atypical genre I did tender
wherein I nestled inside warren
peaceful nested litter,
impossible mission fat chance
otherwise odds being slender,
not me mien tubby an offender
courtesy yours truly a heterosexual,
he considers himself thoroughly
one hundred percent male gender.

Anyway Harold's velvet teen,
fluff filled, carrot topped, R2D2
and humanoid C-P3O constituted two
mottled robots quasi manned motley crew,
where sniffling nose appeared blue
then twitched as if affected with
Bugs Bunny syndrome
also known as Oryctolagus cuniculus flu
asking What's up doc
ready to sneeze atchew
parallels to doe eyed Jewish herd -

mentality and sympathy for the devil
whose hooded guise did accrue
(to figurative rolling stone)
quite a reputation toasting with l'chaim
Herr heralded as germane
Semitic, laconic and genetic brew
stirring demagogue foremost
thru arduous peer review
of course primarily
commingling with ******* bunnies, singing
acapella like foo fighting goo goo
dolls, who blithely balleted,

be bopped, formed a choo choo,
bunny hopped, and
followed bunny trail
toward their hidden
underground treasured slew
of carrot stocked burrow
affecting captivating family
portrait, sans Leporidae, queue
essentially creating live floppy hoo
chee MOMA actionable

art, viz chiaroscuro,
though if his highness Harold
displeased with performance with Urdu
subtitles hissed, growled, foot stomped...
exhibiting cry and hue
threatened troupe, albeit playfully
tubby rabbit stew
otherwise he purred,
hummed, and clucked
contradictorily all the

while scrunching furry furrow
cuz the codas of Peter
Rabbit the Great did eschew
excessive helpings of
soft purr rayed coo coo
wing snapchatting accompanied
soft as butterfly effect
across webbed wide world flew
with faux paw gestures
being lovey dovey gentle foo foo

affectionate grand poobah
versus parochial orthodox pew
yule hating as much
as being sent to Peru
particularly match chew pitch chew,
where convincing reincarnation
of Edward Roscoe Murrow
aired broadcast Run Rabbit Run
intended for **** sexually repressed updike
such as yours truly, hence obviously
above reasonable rhyme not true.

not one that I know,
but not far away
as the crow flies

and
the cries,
their desperate calls
appear to fall on deaf ears.

There used to be a catalogue,
Sears and Roebuck,
and in the old days
for a sawbuck
you could buy your
home defence.
that's gone
worst luck.

I see no good in this
no one could in this
but what we will all have
to live with are the
consequences of this.

I think it's always about
who's got the biggest *****,
yeah
I know,
it's just a ******* contest
but
we'll all get wet in the end

Unseen enemy invades my body
with platoon of green berets air
rating, and enfilading immune system viz
Hib bully knock and sock kin me
courtesy roebuck seers sucker punches
mightier than stormy daniels wallop
from an indomitable
haversack being carrying
courtesy giant bully bear,
whereby cyclopean ogre

freighted hallucinatory dreams
popped up, dunkin noggin - donut ask
clouding ordinarily outlook clear
via this germane, foo fighting earthlinked,
googly eyed live prodigy
also smart **** derriere
(ha – at least sense of humor still intact),
when rest only respite against e’er
gang num of good n plenti
supreme warriors decimating

heralding, lobbing, pulsating fanfare
for this common man
ordinarily robust healthy Donald,
with Machiavellian bravado –
leaving said prince charged with impedance
unable to muster commando egg flu Jung
undermining capacity to brandish
barren grinchlike ******* prestige
self anointed reputation as grandpoobear
smacking dagnabbit fearlessness

sync king, limning, and feigning
to be among magnificent seven
donning follicles slicked
in imitation of greaser
coiffed swept back blond hair,
where (if one could zoom
and magnify manifold)
tom tom club melee
evincing, hammering and
juxtaposing sterling rods

bamboozling schlepper
with molecular size bots
trumpeting atomic bombs
leveling MineCraft concentration
with piercing arrow marks
intrepid invisible microscopic organisms,
attack in Cingular
hardened gear entity,
aggregate, blasting billingsgate, congregate,
gravitate as best buy,

capital one egghead, albeit flimsy
groupon heir inherited
courtesy Don Ask Jeeves throne –
as one BuzzFeed linkedin
uber twittering shutterfly on my Bing
viz, said lothario tumblr hotmail
happened tubby barren some fancy feast,
where gimlet eyes cling aspirin, Bufferin
with super acting non-glue tin,
NOR NON GMO guaranteeing LifeLock

on par with pinteresting illuminaire
hand crafted glittering gold earring
overlaid with anti-semitic,  
egotistic, and misogynistic veneer
invaders re: Avast itsy bitsy potpourri
of foreigners re: survivors
without remorse to fling
helter skelter infectious germs
flittering to and fro hither and yon
within mine corporeal

cerebral domed gummed hell
hounded integral kickstarter
i.e. complex edifice pell mell
twittering, SnapChatting, Ringling Brother  
Barnum, Banks, Bailey & Bittle
inherited deadly killjoy Bluetooth to quell
defensive IdentityGuard
courtesy from mothers -
little helpers – satisfaction generating
excellent skill casting a spell

binding heavenly gilt free,
progressively deteriorating conditions,
where William Tell
Overture played over,
and over incessantly within –
no let up waking in cold blood, sweat
and tears unwelcome viz zit
by archers in dark hoodies
wielding bowed slings and arrows well
aimed at apple of heart,

ratcheting up a notch,
this feeling feathery tarred,
and essentially un well,
where microbial infrastructure
bound me with fluted
strep throat drumming,
thus disallowing me
to imitate rebel yell.

spry buck analogous to energizing bunny
jump/kickstarted procreation ruckus.

Home on the range
cacophony quite absurd
******* Bunny herd
and felt ingratiatingly inured,
nevertheless colony or nest
of doe eyed demoiselles
stewed over their
kit and caboodle being cannibalized
gourmet chef “coney” or “lapin”  
delicacy the magic word.

Ruled his hare'm
nsync with trumpeting Donald Duck,
(loud enough to arouse Daisy),
the former cartoon character,
a pensive searing black kind Roebuck
hare to a fortune hauling trash and *******,

whereby dust bunnies repurposed
into environmentally friendly
electric kool aid acid tested batteries
powering many an electric truck,
which wolfed, kick/jump started
and guzzled down
synthesized reconstituted quality kosher product.

An atypical genre I did tender
wherein I nestled inside warren
peaceful nested litter,
impossible mission fat chance
otherwise odds being slender,
not me mien tubby an offender
courtesy yours truly a heterosexual,
he considers himself thoroughly
one hundred percent male gender.

Anyway Harold's velvet teen,
fluff filled, carrot topped, R2D2
and humanoid C-P3O constituted two
mottled robots quasi manned motley crew,
where sniffling nose appeared blue
then twitched as if affected with
Bugs Bunny syndrome
also known as Oryctolagus cuniculus flu
asking What's up doc
ready to sneeze atchew
parallels to doe eyed Jewish herd -

mentality and sympathy for the devil
whose hooded guise did accrue
(to figurative rolling stone)
quite a reputation toasting with l'chaim
Herr heralded as germane
Semitic, laconic and genetic brew
stirring demagogue foremost
thru arduous peer review
of course primarily
commingling with ******* bunnies, singing
acapella like foo fighting goo goo
dolls, who blithely balleted,

be bopped, formed a choo choo,
bunny hopped, and
followed bunny trail
toward their hidden
underground treasured slew
of carrot stocked burrow
affecting captivating family
portrait, sans Leporidae, queue
essentially creating live floppy hoo
chee MOMA actionable

art, viz chiaroscuro,
though if his highness Harold
displeased with performance with Urdu
subtitles hissed, growled, foot stomped...
exhibiting cry and hue
threatened troupe, albeit playfully
tubby rabbit stew
otherwise he purred,
hummed, and clucked
contradictorily all the

while scrunching furry furrow
cuz the codas of Peter
Rabbit the Great did eschew
excessive helpings of
soft purr rayed coo coo
wing snapchatting accompanied
soft as butterfly effect
across webbed wide world flew
with faux paw gestures
being lovey dovey gentle foo foo

affectionate grand poobah
versus parochial orthodox pew
yule hating as much
as being sent to Peru
particularly match chew pitch chew,
where convincing reincarnation
of Edward Roscoe Murrow
aired broadcast Run Rabbit Run
intended for **** sexually repressed updike
such as yours truly, hence obviously
above reasonable rhyme not true.