Ducks may quack and dogs may moo
But I would never squawk at you.
They’ll tell you that I did. They lie!
It must have been some other guy
Whose squawk resembles what I do
When squawking…but it’s not at you!
My cat is angry
Or, she’s thrilled;
It’s not clear which.
Across my lap
As thick as fur
Make clear, my purpose here
Rose & Tommy:
Clyde & Bonnie
On its face, it’s just absurd:
A wildcat against a bird?
A mismatch any other day
But Louisville against UK.
A rivalry’s a funny thing:
When siblings play they seem to bring
A level of hostility
That few opponents get to see.
Kentuckians bleed red or blue
Depending whom they’re loyal to.
My grandma, who’s one hundred one,
Lived half her life in Lexington
And loves to watch Kentucky play,
So I’m a Wildcat today.
These are the words I am typing right now!
If you know me, you know that the next word is cow.
I’m typing so fast that the neighbors complain
That the heat of their envy is causing them pain.
As letters make words, I just sit back and hope
They’ll make plunk thoosty appleglass kitten…uh, nope.
Is it too much to ask that I might comprehend
What my fingers are writing? I guess so. The end.
I know a word that you know, too.
I’m thinking it right now. Are you?
I know it’s wrong, and yet, I’m stuck:
On pear-shaped days I think, “Oh, Luck!”
The boy insists his father has a lion,
Though I didn’t ask.
He showed up in a bee costume, however.
What’s behind the mask?
Fuzzy feet and puffy muff:
My cat’s not bald, but close enough.
My conscience has an inside voice
But using it’s its second choice–
If flatulence can count as speech
Then even second’s out of reach;
It drops to third. The sequence goes,
First, Outside Voice, so no one knows
Who doesn’t own a working ear
That I’ve done something shameful here;
In second place, my Sorrow Cloud
Will waft and drift across the crowd.
Way down in option three’s the one
That’s just for me, myself and none:
The Inside Voice with which I chide
Myself in private, saving pride
And face and (sometimes) dignity,
Where no one knows I blow but me.
Alas, my conscience knows too well
How best to shame me…
What’s that smell?
Twinkle Star, please grant my wish:
Don’t let me think of jellyfish
Unless I win one in a fight
In which case that would be all right.