Rotational Emotion

Earth’s spin fuels storms
But what makes the world go round?
I’ve been told it’s love.

Not By Bread Alone

Musicals teach us
If we want to find true love
We must sing and dance

Knead That Dough

With sufficient bread
Any treasure can be bought
And/or a sandwich

Buying Time

“Buying Time” is not a thing
Since print newsweeklies lost their zing.
Billionaires might rent a “date”
But like the rest of us they’ll wait
For date night to arrive; supply
Does not respect demand, is why.

Metallurgy

I love her so I bronzed my cat
And though she’s not enthused by that
I lined her litter box with zinc:
She’s pooping pennies! (Which don’t stink.)

Seizures Rendered

Filing taxes isn’t fun.
I’m more enthused when I’m the one
The money hose is pointed at
(I know I’m not alone in that),
A state I’d likely have enjoyed
This year–and here’s why I’m annoyed
More than I might have been–had not
Withholdings dropped by quite a lot
Last year, a sleight-of-hand whose goals–
(A) Boost Republicans in polls;
And (B) Spare wealthy folks the bill
For governing–ensured I still
Had yet to ante up my share
Before today. Okay. That’s fair.
Democracy is pay to play,
And I’ll increase the takeaway
On my W-4 come Monday.
15 April. Not a fun day.

Five-Year Plan

I’d like a job that pays enough
That I don’t have to work
For anyone.
(I’m self-employed;
My boss is such a jerk.)

Tired

If not my all
I gave my most
If my default is bread
I’m toast
If I were money
Then I’m spent
The barn
When all the cows have went
If I’m a wheel
My tire’s flat…
A bike!
Two-tired
Go with that

The Price Of Faim

My wallet isn’t all of me,
It’s just the part that people see.
Had I just pennies to my name
Who’d notice when I left or came?
I like my anonymity
But only rich folk eat for free
And since I like to snorf ‘n’ swaller
More than hiding…here’s a dollar.

A Penn’orth

You ask me, “Do you think in rhyme?”
Well, sometimes, yes. Not all the time,
But there are moments when I can’t
Suppress a mental rhyming rant.
I don’t know why it happens to me,
Why the Muses choose to screw me
With a gift that no one needs:
Composing verse that no one reads.
Check out the market options for
Rhymed poetry. There are no more!
If I could draw like Dr. Seuss,
Perhaps; I can’t, so what’s the use?
Well, actually, that much I know:
I’d rather bake than make the dough,
Which is my lame analogy
For, money’s just not drawn to me
Nor I to it. I like it fine
And won’t complain if much is mine,
But I believe what I was taught,
That happiness cannot be bought,
And though a good facsimile
Might work for some, it won’t for me.
Again, please let me emphasize:
If treasure struck me from the skies
I wouldn’t ask from whence it fell,
But, man, I’d have a tale to tell!
And that right there’s the nub, the crux,
The why my Donald Trumpdom sucks:
While some might count the cloud-borne cash
And contemplate the social splash
They’d soon be making, I’d delight
In all the stories I could write
Supposing how it came to be
That such a windfall fell to me.
And if, while contemplating same,
Another gust of windfall came
And blew my newfound stash away,
Well, there’s my topic for the day.
When stories are worth more than wealth…
I guess it’s good I’ve got my health!