Choose seas that are deep, never shallow,
land once cultivated, now fallow;
describe them in words
more graceful than birds,
and you're reading a novel by Nalo.
I'm writing from Atlanta in shock,
my spaceship's just out of its dock,
but a fellow named Jim
whose light is not dim
has just christened it 'Four O'Clock'.
I knew I was just on the brink
of transilience; yet without pause to think
Teresa declared
what we all wanted aired
that now it was time for a drink.
All you people who voyage in space
know matters have their proper place;
before the first call
up in Montreal
the order is 'splice the mainbrace'.
I got the contract -- lowest bid --
but one simple fact I had hid.
Though we were all staunch
about the great launch,
the one who got drunk was the squid.
All of us have got to smile
Who are devoted to Thomas Carlyle;
He's not very terse,
And doesn't write verse,
So we attend both to substance and style.
We looked forward to afternoon tea
but our joy it was never to be,
since the gods, it was plain,
refused to send rain
in spite of our most profound plea.
The logic of this may seem odd
but before you get our your rod
you have to remember
that the least little ember
would have incinerated the sod.
No reason for strife or for worry,
let's talk here of clothing (or curry);
be polite, remember
to cool wrath to an ember,
and if you get mad the word's 'sari'.
george's mind won't open a crack
to common sense he turns his back
we're in for a ride
because of his pride
so we'll all be long stuck in iraq
now he's not got much sense or wit
an idea into his mind won't fit
but he will endure
for his mind is pure
and there's no smell at all to his shit
there's thousands of wounded and dead
the veterans their dignity shred
but having to beg
while lacking one leg
that idea won't fit in george's head
now most of us have the good luck
to be far from the mire and the muck
far from war's noise
george is keeping his poise
and for the dead he just doesn't give a fuck
There's nothing gives bad dreams at night
as seeing the detailed, excessively bright,
crimes against taste
produced in great haste
by Kinkade, the painter of shite.
With gobs and gobs of fluorescent paint
he gives us a world with no taint
so bright and so twee
it's painful to see,
and would infuriate any saint.
Now, I've got nothing against light
nor cottages glowing at night,
but laid on so thick
it makes the heart sick
and the soul quails under the blight.
Kincade's work no product of luck,
he produces them all by the truck-
loads of crap
sent all over the map,
and real artists groan and say "fuck!"
To call this sugary stuff "art"
gives painters and sculptors a start;
they know it is bad
and what is so sad
is that Kincade just doesn't give a fart.
I'm tired yet I feel like a clown,
my face it is set to a frown;
I've finished my grading
and energies fading
I find that the system is down.
I've got till tomorrow at noon,
and, I suppose, that's a boon;
for having no choice,
nor much of a voice,
I'm afraid to scream like a loon.
I thought that this might just occur,
my mind has been set all a-whirr,
for on this bright day
I'm sorry to say
my memory's down to a blur.
The process makes me want to yell;
my students can't think and can't spell.
They all want straight As,
but, minds in a daze,
they make grading feel just like hell.
I suppose that I ought to be glad
but instead I am tired and feel bad,
it could have been worse,
as under a curse,
and driven me entirely mad.
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