The Nerd

Frequently I’ve been miscast,
But this time isn’t like the last.
In Earnest I was Lane, and he,
A model of efficiency
And tidiness, was no more like
Myself than fish are like a bike.
Today, however, someone whom
I barely know surveyed a room
Of aspirants, and as a bird
Knows south, she found the one true nerd.

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Paul Voyeur’s Ride

Paul Revere kindled patriot pride
By embracing his Peeping Tom side.
His ejaculation
Gave birth to a nation:
“The British are coming!” he cried.

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The British Are Just, Y’Know, Kind Of Standing There!

Listen, my children, I know you’re here
For Historical Poetry Night. I fear
There’s been slight mix-up. We did say five,
But five on the eighteenth. I’m sorry, but I’ve
Got a thing…can you come back tomorrow? Oh, dear.

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I walked a mile in his shoes
And got a blister and a bruise.
The blister’s ’cause his shoes were tight;
The bruise is prob’ly from the fight.
So, note to self: You’re courtin’ sorrow,
‘Less you ask afore you borrow.

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Don’t talk to me about today.
I didn’t have one, anyway:
It’s been tomorrow–in my head,
At least–since I got out of bed.
When I retired Monday night
The moon was shining red and bright
And Tuesday loomed like mile seven
Of a marathon: Eleven
Miles ’til the race turns real,
No great concern for how you feel.
At sunrise, though, it’s like the winds
Swept Tuesday off to play with friends
And left me in the swirling dust
And pollen, wondering whom to trust.
You say it’s Tuesday? Where’s your proof?
Forgive me if I act aloof
And skeptical, but I’ve been burned
By calendars before, and learned
The lesson that eluded John,
Paul, George and Ringo: Two are gone,
And who’s to say what might have been
If they’d not crammed that eighth day in?
Mark David Chapman played a part,
And cancer, too, but could the start
Of both their tragic ends be traced
To weeks in which eight days were placed?
My brain insists we’re four days deep
In our allotted seven. Keep
Your humpday in the camel pen.
I won’t do Wednesday. Not again.

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Neoneticists, rejoice!
Your kneady cats ain’t got no choice.
Check out this SciShow video:
It puts the “ow” in “Good to know.”

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Love Bites

Peckish love might taste a note
Of music; that’s what Willie wrote
At any rate, and he would know,
Since he cooked up what Romeo
And Julie ate before Act V.
I wonder, would they be alive
Today, had they on melodies
Repasted, not apothec’ry’s
“Soon-speeding gear?” Well, no. They’re old
(And fictional), so they’d be cold
No matter what had touched the spoon
Before their star-cross’d honeymoon.
If music’s where the fault is laid,
We might could blame the band that played
The party where the lovers met–
Or DJ Jazzy Capulet,
If that was more Verona’s jam–
But no one kept a set list. Damn.

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