From time to time both, as in “Spring has sprung.”
“Sting”—a Police man.
Perhaps when he retires they’ll say “Sting has stung.”
Madonna: Virgin. Mother of Christ.
Madonna: Singer. Mother of Christ!
The former: biblical, textual, meek.
The latter: atypical sexual freak.
Jesus, our Savior,
But also my waiter
At Frank’s Genuine Mexican Bistro.
Give him the say so
And he’ll slip you some queso
With a genuine Mexican cheese throw.
He’s not keen on lepers though—thinks they’re all flakes.
But I say, why not lend them our ears?
And to ensure we don’t waste, we could donate our waists,
Then make haste down short piers with our peers.
Long walks aside, how about a quick trip?
I hear they’re so nice in the fall.
“Fall!” you exclaim. “But what happened to Spring?”
“Crossed the road with the chickens,”1 I drawl.
But enough off-the-cuff guff,
For my fluff becomes rough
And there’s no sense in continuing nonsense.
So stop peeling punions.
They ooze worse than bunions
And they’re ruining this correspondence.
As for seasons that rhyme
(And I don’t mean “seasons” like thyme
Or ginger…or Mary-Ann or the Professor),
I think you’ll agree
That it’s time they broke free
And ejected your lyrical oppressor.
Which they do,
So now you
Are quite free
And since “Me” = I…
1. Giving you “spring chickens,” of course, not “chicken spring rolls,”
Which we fried in the “long woks” above
And then ate with an eight-pack of duck sauce while 8-tracks
Played songs made of acid and love.