Proportion Control

A tiny bowl
A giant spoon
My mouth’s too full
Soup’s gone too soon

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Equuaphagia

My horses are moping.
They won’t eat their soup.
I’m shaken, but coping.
They say, “Whoop-de-doop.”
That’s not straight transcription
(They’re speaking Cavalli
With lazy-lip diction),
But carping is folly
And leads to distraction.
My point, to repeat,
Is this equine inaction:
My horses won’t eat.

Eclipsed

I’m sitting here a week ago
Just slurping soup, look up, and, “Whoa!
They did it! Someone stole the moon!”
I spill my soup and drop the spoon
Because I know, like my own name,
Exactly whom they’re bound to blame.
You see, when I eat soup, I tend
To run my mouth. It’s just pretend,
But I’ve been known, a time or three,
To preach about, if God were me
And I were He (or She, or It),
How I would make mankind submit
To every vain, immortal whim
That crossed My Mind (if I were Him).
They’d take me seriously, since
I’d demonstrate omnipotence
With one of God’s own special stunts:
I’d steal the moon! I’m such a dunce.
It’s obvious some bad guys heard
Me spouting off, and said, “That nerd
Has cooked his goose himself, is all:
We’ll take the moon, he’ll take the fall!”
If this were in a film, I’d laugh,
But it’s real life. I’ve scraped up half
A disk so far–it took a week–
But that’s just Moon Man’s eye and cheek
And part of where they parked that cow
In ’69–don’t ask me how.
That leaves me short a hemisphere!
Who’s that? Oh, no, the cops are here
To haul me off–and well they should–
To jail. I hope the soup is good.