Collection of serious poems continued: Literary analysis still required

A poem on the laws of aviation: Is this joke overused?

According to all known laws of aviation,
there is no way a bee
should be able to fly.

Its wings are too small to get
its fat little body off the ground The bee, of course, flies anyway because bees don’t care
what humans think is impossible. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black.
Ooh, black and yellow!
Let’s shake it up a little.
Can you believe this is happening? I can’t. I’ll pick you up.
Looking sharp.
Use the stairs. Your father
paid good money for those.
Sorry. I’m excited.
Here’s the graduate.
We’re very proud of you, son.
A perfect report card, all B’s.

Very proud.

A Haiku about that time I spent two minutes trying to pick up my VCard from the ground
Why am I useless
It has been like two minutes

It’s embarrassing


A poem on acrostics: You can’t tell me what to do, mom








A poem on different types of meals I can eat at 2 a.m.

Thou still unravish’d stuffed pizza crust,
Thou foster child of bread and cheese,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than Starbucks marble loaf:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy stale bread crust
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In the fridge or the dales of the freezer?
What men or gods are these? How many calories doth this have?
What mad pursuit of hunger? What struggle to pace oneself?
What of eating sprinkles straight from the mouth of the jar? What wild ecstasy?

A poem on getting places: I’m late, I know, I’m sorry
I always tell myself I will get there on time
I sometimes believe myself, though I mostly know it’s a lie
Turns out if I’m waiting for myself to get there early, I’ll be following a paradigm Of always putting off getting ready to the last minute; the cycle will only amplify. Thus vainly thinking that I’m efficient, responsible and young,
Although I knows my days are past their best,
Simply I credit my false speaking tongue:
Thus is simple truth that I’m always late is suppress’d.
But is always being late that unjust?
Is sneaking in through the back of the classroom getting old?
O, my bad habits will change I certainly trust,
And a future in which I’m frequently responsible and on time will be told: However I lie to myself and myself lies to me,
And in our faults by lies forever slightly late I will be.

A concluding poem on the state of the world: New York Times, hire me
World’s oldest cheese found
In Egyptian tomb, a piece of good news until

You find out it may be filled with a deadly Disease, if we can’t drink the sarcophagus juice If we can’t eat the tomb cheese
What even is the point
Of modern archeology


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *