In desecration dedication to National Poetry Month
Both poems with severe apologies to Joyce Kilmer
Foodie
with apologies to Joyce Kilmer
I think that I shall never see,
a food that doesn't agree with me.
I whose hungry mouth is pressed
against the pie with lemon zest;
I who looks at food all day,
and lifts my heavy arms that sway;
I who may in summer wear
a net of chocolate in her hair;
Upon whose bosom crumbs have lain;
who hates to have her bagels plain.
I think that I shall never see,
my feet somewhere below my knees.
------
Turds: On Barely Avoiding One in the Grass
I think I've not seen flower nor bird
which moved me as did that fine turd.
A turd in hue of brown and tan,
it coiled in grass where my dog ran.
Its grandeur suggested that of Alsatian,
a Labradoodle, or Dalmatian.
I chanced to see it, as down I glanced,
and breathed a thank-you as back I danced.
For had I walked without a care,
I'd not have seen it lying there.
The gloom that did downcast my eyes
revealed to me that shrine of flies.
My spirits then were so upraised,
I wrote this verse to this thing's praise:
This universe was made by God, I've heard,
but anyone can make a turd.
Both poems with severe apologies to Joyce Kilmer
Foodie
with apologies to Joyce Kilmer
I think that I shall never see,
a food that doesn't agree with me.
I whose hungry mouth is pressed
against the pie with lemon zest;
I who looks at food all day,
and lifts my heavy arms that sway;
I who may in summer wear
a net of chocolate in her hair;
Upon whose bosom crumbs have lain;
who hates to have her bagels plain.
I think that I shall never see,
my feet somewhere below my knees.
by Anne Skalitza
in volume 1 issue 2
------
Turds: On Barely Avoiding One in the Grass
I think I've not seen flower nor bird
which moved me as did that fine turd.
A turd in hue of brown and tan,
it coiled in grass where my dog ran.
Its grandeur suggested that of Alsatian,
a Labradoodle, or Dalmatian.
I chanced to see it, as down I glanced,
and breathed a thank-you as back I danced.
For had I walked without a care,
I'd not have seen it lying there.
The gloom that did downcast my eyes
revealed to me that shrine of flies.
My spirits then were so upraised,
I wrote this verse to this thing's praise:
This universe was made by God, I've heard,
but anyone can make a turd.
by A.J. Dillon-Davis
in volume 1 issue 2
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