Came to dance
But another chance
Was awaitin’ Peyton.
Not panning Manning
But Bronc’s defense
It's your good friend whose breath smells like cheese;
There's a thing which I must needs make mention:
I'm requesting a deadline extension.
Please, just give me till Tuesday, a.m.
And I'll have a great poem—a gem.
It's a one 'bout my cousin, Fat Phil—
He’s a woodchuck that's over the hill,
One who’s known far and wide for chicanery—
Whose predictions for Spring mostly blunder it.
('Stead of o'er the hill, wish he was under it.)
Well anyway, if he by happenstance
Chanced to not see his shadow and craphispants,
But instead be convinced that Spring's closer—
Notwithstanding March always says, "NO sir!"—
Then have I got the perfectest poem!
And of perfectest, I oughtta know 'em.
You remember last year’s silly verse?
Well, then…this one can’t be any worse.
Just like last year, I’ve fired up the grill;
If no shadow, though, Phil I won't kill
But instead, o'er the charcoal's hot glow,
I'll be cooking me barbecued crow.
I can see that your taste is allured
(For the poem, I mean, not the bird),
And that that’s what Sun readers are cravin’
(Just the poem, of course, not the raven).
Look—saliva now pours from your jowl!
(It’s the poem, I hope, not the fowl.)
So I’ll wait till my cousin’s been drugged
To the cold outside world, and been mugged
By each janitor-journalist loser
With a notepad and camera—like you, sir—
Who snap shots and get ready to pounce
On whatever he has to announce.
You’ll expect him to say something deep
(Like, “This year, better look ’fore you Leap”),
As though Phil would say something profound
(Shucks, he’s still thinkin’ pi r is round!),
Or that maybe he’ll say something weighty
(Like, “Next week, I expect to be eighty*”).
If the thing he announces makes plain
That in two weeks all snow turns to rain
(Which of course we all know is preposterous,
But’s what makes lying rodents so prosperous),
Then I’ll forward said po’m to you post-haste—
Not sure’f that or the crow’ll have the most-taste.
If instead he again sees his shadow
And’s completely bereft of bravadow,
Then I’ll send you another for sure,
Mr. Janitor-Editor, sir.
Wait! My perfectest poem is missin’!
Well…I s’pose you’ll just have to use this’n.
So Good-byes, adioses, and ciaos,
Most Sincereliest yours,
A. A. Mouse
*Do you know how ambigu’us that sounds, Phil?
Is that years? or degrees? or just pounds, Phil?!
The gas grill, aglow,
Was all set to go,
I have to eat crow.
Last week, when de weater toined rott’n,
De East Coast with snow was besott’n;
But no doubt—mark my woid—
Soon’s from Spring dey have hoid
It’ll all be forgived and forgott’n.
Removing winter’s frigid fluff,
That frozen-vapor-crystal stuff—
Result of Old Man Arctic’s puff—
Elicits often miff or huff.
Each year he threatens to be tough—
Though this year hasn’t been that rough.
But dare we chance to call his bluff?
One blast, and we’ll have had enough.
The wise never foolishly thinks he is wise,
But wisely regards himself foolish;
He’s not like the fool who—in his own eyes—
Thinks he is wise, but is foolish.
So the wise man acts wisely…but what does he gain
If he nonetheless thinks he’s a fool?
The fool behaves foolishly, making it plain
That though thinking he’s wise, he’s a fool.
Now, maybe the wise man would be wiser still
To truly in fact be a fool,
And forget all his wisdom and all of his skill.
But then…is he wise, or a fool?
And see, if the wise man should alter the rule—
Like a fool, now think himself wise—
The foolish man might see that he is the fool…
And thus, in the end, be the wise.
So the wise man’s no wiser, if wise or a fool:
Forgetting he ever was wise,
Or else, being wise, and then playing the fool…
He’s foolish, whichever he tries.
The time for resolutions is upon us,
That time for being mercilessly honest:
In a mute, discrete confession
For the year’s build-up of flab appearing on us—
We look more like a Jabba than a ’Donis.
Yup, the time for resolutions has arrived;
We’re perplexed how, in this shape, we have survived:
Our increased avoirdupois
From too much Mardi Gras…
But our comfy-chubby state will be short-lived—
As long’s we keep our appetites deprived.
Wow, the time for resolutions got here fast;
Now our dismal New Year’s diet’s die is cast:
To make ourselves more pallory,
We’re eschewing every calorie
To purge the pudge our personage amassed—
Better do it ’fore this week’s resolve has passed.
—Anon Avoirdupois Mouse
2015’s days are done,
Of silly talk and making fun;
But those days will be back, don’t fear:
’16 is an election year.