The following is a public service announcement.
Um, more or less.
(Mostly less)
Um, more or less.
(Mostly less)
You may revel in those pretty sweet smelling flowers and cute little animals. Laze about 'neath the shade of a (no longer weeping) willow tree, but that is precisely what they want to put you off your guard! They are actually biding their time. They have been for a few, er, millennia, gathering information on us, evolving.
You think bird droppings on your auto (or head) are bad? Just wait until they go nuclear.
Nature has had enough of our falderal.
As we speak, the noble immobile are pulling up roots and training to become the ambulate!
We need to worry about the one in the article below, especially!
You think bird droppings on your auto (or head) are bad? Just wait until they go nuclear.
Nature has had enough of our falderal.
As we speak, the noble immobile are pulling up roots and training to become the ambulate!
We need to worry about the one in the article below, especially!
(It may well be a plot to first rid them of our elderly retirees!)
Anyway, my apologies to Joyce Kilmer for the altering of his poem with the following-
'Ode to the Manchineel'
I think that I shall never see
A poem as poisonous as this tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth infests
the earth's rancor beknowing breast;
A tree that looks at us all day,
And tempts with leafy arms her prey;
A tree that may in Summer snare
Corpses of robins in her lair;
Upon her bosom she hath slain;
And intimately inflicts pain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But, OMG! why’d you make this tree?
Has anyone else noticed Joyce seemed to be a bit too preoccupied with breasts?
A poem as poisonous as this tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth infests
the earth's rancor beknowing breast;
A tree that looks at us all day,
And tempts with leafy arms her prey;
A tree that may in Summer snare
Corpses of robins in her lair;
Upon her bosom she hath slain;
And intimately inflicts pain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But, OMG! why’d you make this tree?
Has anyone else noticed Joyce seemed to be a bit too preoccupied with breasts?
(OK, OK, so, yes, I admit, I wrote all this just to post my altered poem.)
:P
Joyce Kilmer's actual poem-
Trees
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
(See what I meant about his preoccupation with a certain part of the female anatomy? Mmhm.)