There once was a coronavirus
which in a pandemic did mire us.
“Wash hands,” said the docs,
“and stay home in your socks
so the numbers infected won’t tire us.”
As I grow older,
I gain ever more power
behind my sneezes.
I MUST DECREASE MY DUST
A big “spring cleaning”
in the fall, before winter
traps me with a mess.
(To the tune of “Hot Stuff“)
Sittin’ here hearin’ my snowed-in neighbor
startin’ their snowblower that stalls
Shoveled out my plowed-in, buried driveway
glaring at the snow as it falls
Living in some Hoth stuff, baby, this evening
I mean some Hoth stuff, baby, tonight
Don’t want that Hoth stuff, baby, this evening
Gonna have some Hoth stuff, gonna have to shovel all night
(Apologies to Donna Summer)
The light of sunset
on MechaGodzilla’s knees;
a skyscraper falls.