The Ultimate Absolute Complete and Utterly Final Global Warming Poem

KITTENS CRYING, people.

KITTENS CRYING!

»» A must-see by TimT – he who will type for food.  H/T Blair.

UPDATE:  TimT needs to talk Debbie from eHarmony into doing a dramatic reading of his fine pome.  I would pay money to see that.

Lyle Republished

This has been going through my head all freakin’ day for absolutely no reason, so I’ll share that joy with you all. It’s one of Lyle’s greatest, a rather competitive title considering the genius of the man, but expressed in just the right sing-song voice gets completely stuck in your head.

I give you “A Squirrel Poem For Children”, originally published at the Lair of Blair:

A Squirrel Poem for Children

My squirrel plays the bagpipes;
He keeps them in my car.
He plays those nasty bagpipes
Wherever squirrels are.
Colt forty-five, meet bagpipes
And blast them all to hell.
Though squirrel plays the bagpipes
He does not play them well.

If anyone knows how to get it out of my head, I’d really appreciate it. I think I may have to gnaw my arm off to distract.

Tuesday’s Best Worst Poetry

Some Haiku for a cold Tuesday morning.  So bad, it’s almost good.  Almost. 😛

William Butler Yeats: The Song of the Wandering Angus

“I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I turned to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

I write poetry myself, but I never share it. Seriously, I have a few books worth, but it all seems so corny, shallow, and superficial next to a true master like Yeats.

Wonder why I like this particular one?

From The Deep Archives Of TimBlair.Net

The Plight of the Morally Superior

By the magnificent Lyle

We are the eco-egotists,
Embrace our latest fad.
When we speak Truth to Power,
Just one thing makes us mad.

It’s not the rich and powerful,
They too share the dream.
To have their cake and eat it,
Engorged on self-esteem.

This cake is baked with vanity,
Self-worship and pretense.
For narcissistic poseurs,
With little common sense.

No, our hatred is reserved,
For those we can’t evade.
Who doubt our moral grandeur,
And rain on our parade.