Song of Spring

The rain is falling on my head
It fills my waning soul
It motivates my spirit guide
Removes all trace of woe
Its music is the song of life
That wakes my sleeping youth
Oh, how I love the rain—but still,
I should probably fix my roof.

Inventory Day

OK, let’s see…
You’ve got a rhinestone shoebox
where you keep your pocket fluff,
a steamer trunk that’s full of
Micronesian powder puffs.
Your wardrobe’s shoulder deep in
iridescent jumping crabs,
while both the walk-in closets
are completely stuffed with rags.

The spare room’s got its own spare room
with little room to spare—
I don’t think Galileo could find anything in there.
Your summer house looks very much
like Selfridges blew up,
and I don’t know why your art museum
needs a monster truck.
Your oil tanker’s oil tank
is not quite big enough—

So yes, I think,
I’m pretty sure that
you’ve got too much stuff.

Marjorie’s Mad

Marjorie’s mad, ’cause her neighbor Chad
Is one of those guys who eats loads of fries
And the oil slick (if you walk too quick)
To his front doorway bell to complain of the smell
That results from the fries (along with some flies)
Will likely cause your feet to fly up
To the place where your noggin should be.
And the pain in your end (Chad’s porch doesn’t bend)
Will make you quite tardy to the big french fry party
Being thrown by your neighbor
Who lives next to Chad—
And that’s why Marjorie’s mad.