Just like me to come in late;
Tell me if I've got this straight.
Rose stomachs trochee, spondee, iamb
but will not eat green eggs and ham.
No, broccoli. Yes, that was it,
and butchering gives Slater fits,
though Ward is quite hard on the beaver.
Zbaby pursues us, Janet says a deceiver
is best known for his claims to truth:
"I lie, therefore, I don't. That's proof."
(When you ask what Truth is, stay for an answer;
it's only good form, even if she's a dancer.)
Then Slater and Bugsy made war over Kate
(Or was it Rose?) at any rate,
it ended with Bugsy getting in Gere,
or some such thing that I read here.
I wanted to answer, in fact had a penful,
but was it half-empty or was it half zen-ful?
And somewhere here the Roman Jews
made artichokes. In other news
from correspondents theophilic,
God showed himself as crocodilic.
Now to the point of heresy,
here alligated by two or three,
I humbly propose an ecumenic
compromise, lest the endemic
irrational zeal of those who confess
the Croc God, finding the Allis less
than orthodox, lead to all-out war:
let's worship their progenitor!
Some saurian beast, no, before that, some cell
said "let their be light!" And Heaven and Hell
and gods and prophets were born that day.
"But cells don't talk," you smugly say.
QED. We bicker, God stays mum:
Incognito Ergo Sum.
I realize this humble petition
invites the Crockish Inquisition
(and the torments of that croc perdition,
chock-full of Alli-mental superstition.)
But here I stand, I can do no other,
with every man in truth my brother,
except for those who disagree,
who must endure, self-evidently,
some unhappy rebirth or some damnation
deterring further emendation
of this four-letter name to whom all must pray:
ATCG (that's DNA.)
Oy, I've done it now, I'm going to Hell.
Hey! We don't have it! Just as well!
|