"God bless our good and gracious" queen
Whose pap a pome "relies on",
Who never learned the babe to wean
Nor willed the wit excise one.
Ten years it takes to grow a tree
To harvest pine for pulp wood,
Add fifty more before you see
A floor from where the oak stood.
Invent machines to take the place
Of oxen, mule and plow horse,
From tenant farm their exit trace
As pampered pet food resource.
A timely stitch precluded nine
In garments prone to ravel,
Still, fools deplore the detour sign
On roads their tailors travel.
A poem lacking form and rhyme
Is born a damaged angel,
Whose lusty father's paradigm
Convokes a tighter tangle.
copyright 1999, The Goober Tree Press, all rights reserved