Some fellow wrote a stanza all about a purple cow, And made himself a fortune, but I really don't know how. I've written things as off-the-wall as anything he did, But have I made my fortune? Not a dollar, not a quid. I wrote about a wardrobe that was full of railroad ties, And zebra-wedded leopards who had spots before their eyes, I've retold tales from history, and epic's of the seas, Of brooms, and pigs and truckers, and of turtles climbing trees... I lay in bed composing this, and then I must have dozed And spoke in terms iambic, to what Ermintrude proposed. "Oh what I'd like for breakfast, dear, is sausages and beans, Served by a waitress, scanty-clad, and only in her teens. "And showing pert firm nipples scarcely hid 'neath filmy top. And legs that reach her ears..." But here ground to a stop. By this time I had fully waked, and knew what I had done, And thus today for breakfast, I had zilch, naught, nothing none.
Thursday, March 18, 2004