In Which I Grouse A Bit About My New License Plate

Booktastic Jack got his new tags today,

More than just tags; Wyoming's got new plates.

Sure on a website they look nice, but they

Are not so vivid in real life. Our state's

Got much to live up to in this regard.

Most recently, we featured Devil's Tow'r,

Long famed, if you're a UFO diehard,

As where some Spielberg aliens in our

Collective memory touched down. We've still

The bucking horse, of course, forevermore.

Ol' Steamboat will not leave us, not until

The Yellowstone volcano blows up or --

I can't think of what else. But this I knows:

The Tetons don't show up, so this plate blows.

BONUS SONNET: Mark Sanford, Out To Lunch...

Mark Sanford is no Zaphod Beeblebrox.

Our Zaphod, he is just zis guy, we know,

As Halifrunt would tell us. Sanford rocks

Not one bit, as he bumbles to and fro

From Carolina to the Argentine.

Zaphod just crashed one party, said "Hey doll,

This guy boring you?" and she went flying

With him without a thought, having a ball.

Maria Belen Chapur, though, did cause

Her man to shirk his job, cross continents

To be with her. She did expose his flaws

For all to see. Would Trillian's sentiments

So do to Zaphod? No! Not by a mile.

Ol' Zaphod, with a ten of ten for style?

In Which I Further Whip At Least One Possibly Ex-Horse

O, Bernie Madoff, Magrathean git,
Do you prove that mankind may yet be taught?
Your ponsi-scheme is dead, and thus your wit
Rewarded amply now that you are caught
And sentenced. Yea, like your forebears of old,
You shall sit undisturbed in a dank hole
Until th'economy revives. Grow mold
At peace there in jail, no chance of parole
For one hundred and fifty years. To build
To-order worlds sucked galaxies quite dry,
A feat not for the just or the unskilled.
Fake dividends don't orbit through the sky
But do as much harm when you make enough.
Enjoy your prison time; you've got the stuff.

In Which Snack Foods Are Weaponized

The first news which did penetrate my brain
Through its thick haze of sleeplessness (the pug,
My houseguest, ne'er did think to deign
To let me catch some Zs) hit like a drug.
In Tennessee, a couple's fight took place
In which the so-called weapon of their choice
Was Cheetos. Once we learned of this disgrace
The race was on among us all to voice
Opinions on how Cheetos could be used
To do real harm. In powder form, perhaps
And blown into the eyes? Mashed up and fused
Into a bludgeon? Up the nose? No maps
Exist for such a territory -- well, I hope.
But now we're poised upon a slipp'ry slope.

BONUS SONNET: Night of the Collie...And The Pug

Quoth Poncho, "Do you really want that bone?"

Quoth Molly, "Yes I do, now go away.

Quoth Poncho, "But you've left it all alone!"

Quoth Molly, "Sure, but that is not to say

I will not want it later, tiny pup,

And you've your own. Now just pug off, begone!"

The puppy, irrepresible, kept up

Attention to the rawhide not yet gnawn,

A watchful eye he kept on it until

I picked him up and took him all away

Off to my office, where I did fulfill,

The wishes of a friend who, in the day

Was Poncho's former mommy/midwife/girl

So glad to see his face and wee tail's curl.

In Which I Fear For My Recovery

I fear I may at last have overdosed
On undead stuff. I just spent so much time
A-chortling at zombie haiku posts,
That I may ne'er recover. Oh, and I'm
A part of the INVASION as you'll see
If you go watch the video that's here
(The girl with hair in towel would be me).
I know deep down there's little I need fear,
That zombies are imagin'ry -- and yet --
I say, you maybe ought to have a nap.
You're looking pale and just a tad upset,
And you've a maggot moving 'neath that flap
Of skin on your left cheek; I'm sure that pains --
No! No! Not me, you bastard! Not my brains!

SONNET DARE: In Which A Hapless Survivor Is Prepared For A New Role

I've e'er been strong, as sleepers these days go.
A brass band or jet plane could n'er wake me.
It's no suprise, then, that I missed the woe
And violence when Skynet did decree
Extermination of all humankind
(Or was that Davros? I sometimes mix up
My robot overlords). I am confined
Now to a cell, where I am forced to sup
On funky meats and get no exercise.
I'm gaining weight and getting soft like veal.
I'm quite confused. I really don't surmise
That I am meant to be a fancy meal.
Robots don't eat, though they do like a show.
What's this? OK, "Solo! Hay lapa no?"

BONUS SONNET: Bye-Bye, Mr. & Ms. American Pie

Two icons of my childhood, both are gone.

I still recall when his hair caught on fire,

And still laugh loud when she sits on the lawn

And tries repeatedly just to inspire

A quiet moment to reflect on trees.

My sister loved MJ much more than I,

As girls. But I remember -- quelle suprise

Our skating in our dad's garage to my

Small turntable with Thriller on and more.

In later years, the freak show dwarfed the man

And Farrah sort of faded to decor:

Her poster long outlived her actual span

Within the public eye. I bid them peace.

At last the tabloids, flashbulbs for them cease.

In Which I Muse On An Internet Character

Lord Likely, he will solve 'most any crime,

And ravish any lass who comes his way.

With Botter at his side, he'll take the time

He needs to penetrate whate'er may lay

Athwart him. Just don't ask him to work hard

At anything that involves not a dame.

Few can withstand the stress of his regard

Without succumbing to a blush, for shame!

His quite uncanny nose for finding clues

Inerrently leads him to the boudoir --

Which where else would one search, if one could choose?

His perspicacity n'er leads him far

From what's important: finding ere the fools

Start searching, for the prize, milady's jewels.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Celebrate The Enterprising Spirit Of A Chinese Fisherman

In Chongqing, China lives a fisherman

Who paid attention to his history,

Knew of a river that, when this began

Flowed crossed rather than underground. You see,

The local government had bombed a hill

To pave a road, and now the river runs

Deep underground, stayed hidden, or until

Li Huiyan made a plan, scared up some funds

And paid his pals to dig a great, deep hole.

His kitchen floor now gives Huiyan access

To easy money; just add fishing pole,

Or if there's insufficient line, some nets.

The fishery may be fifty feet down.

Commuting is a breeze, though: just don't drown.

In Which I Rashly Take My Sonnets Audio

I can't recall just why or when or how

I got the notion to podcast my stuff,

But so I did, and so I do endow

The internet with this (as though enough

Of us weren't on that bandwagon;

It must be near collapsing from the weight

Or would be were it real). I doubt I'll stun

You with my first attempt, just hope no hate

Comes my way for it. I'm no Slau Be Sharp:

My studio's my office, and my dog

My only audience. She did not carp

At anything I did but chewed her log

Of Rawhide. Yes, I'm gazing at my shoes.

It will get better as I pay my dues.

In Which I Explain The Motivation Behind A Hashtag (#doctorwhotillmyeyesbleed)

I lived without TV for many years,

Well over ten, if truth indeed be told.

I missed it not, except for -- bring the jeers --

One show from overseas I'd loved of old.

That show was Doctor Who, which only came

To me in Saratoga, much delayed,

Through Denver's PBS, which bore the flame

Of wobbly sets and Time Lords, chiefly played

By one Tom Baker, then Pete Davison.

The show went on without me, glad to say,

While I attended Bard, grad school, had fun

In Boston writing for odd 'zines, away

From any cathode ray tubes but now I've

A hankerin' to see Docs beyond Five.

In Which I Prepare To Accept An Honor

My face had scarce resumed its corpselike hue,
From yet another morning's pedal in
To work (it turns quite red; exertion do
Have its effects!), when I learned, for the win,
That I am Nerdabout's Geek of the Week!
Who says that sonnet-writing never pays?
The Science Channel finds my work unique
Enough to earn this much sought-after praise!
You may object that I'm not featured there
As yet; I'm still at work as I type this
And have no photograph to send with flair
Enough to suit this purpose. Here's a kiss
To all my science friends who've so inspired
The sonnet geekery that has transpired.

Father's Day Sonnet: In Which I Celebrate My Own Dear Personal Dad's Verbal Gifts

My Dad's been a Patrolman, Sheriff, Judge,

As acts to follow go, he's pretty hard.

A storyteller, too - I don't begrudge

His greater skills than mine there. And regard,

His phraseology is unsurpassed:

He has heard, sometimes, fishworms fart before,

You're "Little Buckaroo" until you're classed

Perhaps as "Sports Fan," "Bub" or "Coyote", or

Some brand new sobriquet as yet unknown.

As "drunker than a waltzing go-to-hell"

And "Glad you got to see me" both have shone

Forth brightly from his discourse, you see well

Where I come by my weird-ass verbal feats,

Raised as I've been on such lexical treats.

Sonnet For Josh And Sarah Kelly, On The Occasion Of Their Wedding

At Vedauwoo I watched, before the storm,

Beneath the shadow of enormous rocks,

Amidst the scent of pines and in the warm

Light of the sun sound of calling flocks

Of birds and of rock climbers, as my friends

Sipped water, layered sand and shared a gaze

Presaging a long trip that never ends.

It's evening now; they're drenched and in a daze:

The thunder pealed, the clouds cut loose with rain

And hail as they wrapped up their promises.

Two families rejoiced well in their gain.

Now he is hers as well as she is his.

True to each other, true too to themselves,

And ever merry as befits two elves.

In Which The Biomechanical Filmmaker Is Congratulated Twice Over

Oh no, I say, perhaps we'd all best run --
Though he could catch us on his motorbike --
Brent Weichsel now is twenty, having fun,
And he just got some news I'd also like
To share here with my readers, who should know
Already of his film work from his site,
The news that it has reached a great plateau
Of recognition. I am pleased to write:
A Parsec nomination now is his!
His podcast on filmmaking is a must
For anyone with int'rest in that biz
Or in how art is conjured from the dust
Of basements or the mental rubbish bin.
Underdevelopment is for the win!

In Which I Watch A Legend Grow

The internet's a snowball of info
To which it's fun to add as we see fit.
Today's project, should you all want to know,
Is adding to this page - it's quite legit -
Which details the accomplishments of one
J.C. Hutchins, of whom I've writ before.
A Nobel prize is his in medicine!
A Happy Meal's been named for him and more!
A most nefarious conspiracy
Was launched to hide his knighthood from us. Howl!
(And if you check him on IMDB,
You'd see none of his cameos. Cry foul!)
I'm sure that ere this edifying day
Is through we'll find out that his skin is grey.

In Which A Weird Co-Twit-cidence Has Me Flabbergasted

Baton-twirlers have nothing on this guy,
Josh Womack, with his mad bat-ninja skills!
My gosh, the torque he somehow doth apply
To make that bat spin. It gives me the chills,
And I'm not very much a baseball fan.
But freakish talent grabs me every time,
As freak coincidences also do. Oh man!
Somehow my fav'rite writer, one whom I'm
Quite proud to name as William Gibson, found
Me passing on a tweet about this clip,
And made the choice to pass it all around.
It's called re-tweeting, and it's quite a trip,
When someone I admire deigns to see
And geek on something that's deligthed me.

BONUS BONUS SONNET: In Which Mary And I Claim Credit For The Weather Clearing For The Big Launch

The weather threatened to delay our launch

Of LRO and L-CROSS to the moon.

A lightning storm would violate the staunch

Rulebook regarding really just how soon

We can ignite the rocket, fire it off.

So my fair tweep, Mactavish, yea, and I,

Though skeptics to the bone and prone to scoff

At magic thinking, sucked it up to try

Propitiating the great mad god Thor.

A sacrificial goat would be the best,

But hard to come by. She and I, therefore,

Winos for NASA, put this to the test:

A sweet, sweet wine tastes almost quite like mead

Could pouring some for Thor help us succeed?

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Plan To Order Up A Pizza... For Science!

At Stirling University, was learned

A fact I've long suspected to be true.

That same stuff which so many mouths has burned

Is what makes pizza taste good in review!

The pizza sauce has fibers in it which

Prevents the crust from getting soggy, and

Keeps cheesy goodness in its place, all rich

And lovely on the top. That's why it's grand,

That pizza, cold, the morning after we've

Had it all hot and fresh, delivered or

Homemade in our own ovens. Always leave

Some for the next day. Research is a chore

But it's important that these great results

Are proved and proved again, by smart adults!

In Which I Crane My Neck And Wait For LRO/LCROSS To Tell Me More

Outdoors at night, where do we always look?

Into the sky; the moon is shining there.

I'd be there now were wishing what it took,

But just one girl can wish, but never dare

The aether on her own, nor go so far

(Two hundred thousand miles in airless cold).

It takes a civ'lization's works, as our

Space program's done, to reach what we behold

As indirect light from our sister stone,

Explore its peaks and valleys, craters, plains.

No part of it can yet be called our own,

No matter what our flag, fragmented, claims.

The first moonwalk was not long ere my birth.

I'm 39 and we're still just on Earth.

In Which I Geek Out On Yet Another NASA Mission - To The Moon!

I'm sad Endeavor's now not going to fly

Until next month, but consolation's had:

An Atlas 5 will streak into the sky

This time tomorrow, leave from the launch pad

With two unmanned craft, destination Moon!

The L-R-O will write the Baedeker,

While LCROSS seeks for water and, real soon,

Will land upon the Lunar South Pole, her

Objective to seek out some water ice

That we've long thought a crater there might hold,

Safe from the sun and enough to suffice

For starting a manned base there in the cold

And hostile, airless world that's Luna. I'll

Watch with eagerness, a Lunaphile!

What's It Sound Like, Indeed

The pitter-patter of four collie feet,

And thuds as she finds a good place to hide,

Alert me even more so than the beat

And drum of thunder, that I must abide

Another thunderstorm. At last a flash

Is visible from my seat at my desk.

They're brief but powerful, these storms; alas,

Though, little rain accomp'nies them out west

(This June so far's had plenty rain but it's

Anomalous that way). Speaking of sound,

The Mud Room of Squee brought on quite a blitz:

Blue Snowflake, welcome to my toybox. Found

On Amazon, and harnessed soon to make

Some sounds to cause th'internet to quake.

Iran: Another Lump Sticking In My Throat

The nation I first learned to hate, at nine
Years old, when hostages were what I cared
About, is now in turmoil, with no sign
Of normalcy returning soon. I'm scared
For all the people who just sought to change
Their leadership and exercise their rights,
Now being shot and beaten if in range
Of government enforcers. Will these fights
And demonstrations end at all well? I
Am pessimistic. Ahmadinejad
Himself a hostage-taker, could defy
My expectations or could run roughshod
O'er hopes and dreams, as seems to be his plan.
His next steps will prove much about the man.

All In A Day's Tweet

Creationists unfollow Mythbusters,
For dissing their museum; meanwhile in
Tehran police are beating protesters
Of likely voting fraud and, for the win,
It's Twitter that is whence the info comes.
Meanwhile a mensch and fellow sonneteer
Makes sure Bagua is not forgotten. Drums
Beat for New Zealand's coming loss, I fear,
To mighty Spain in football, and I'm now
A co-producer on an indie flick
Whose maker's raising funds on Twitter: Wow!
In England, and I'll call this no mean trick,
A tweep is hearing Zappa music live.
All this and more, is what makes Twitter thrive.

Safety First: Or Why I Never Bitch When We Call A Hydrogen Halt

Sometimes the smallest things can cause the worst
Of problems, when they leak from where they ought
Rather than vent, controlled - such as the first
Of all the elements. Lest you forgot,
That's Hydrogen, the smallest, simplest one,
But one that can explode with quite a bang
(As when the Hindenburg came quite undone).
I'm glad, therefore, that NASA's ground crew gang
Discovered on Endeavor such a leak
As paused Discovery some months ago
Until all was put right. Yeah it's some streak
Of luck we're having, but it must be so.
Th'alternatives are not to be allowed:
Retreat or tragedy? Not what we've vowed.

In Which I Realize I've Probably Overdosed On Scott Sigler A Bit

Today, from Germany, we have the news:
A boy, hit by a pebble from the sky
Was "only grazed," got just a scar or bruise
Upon his hand. Yet somehow, it was spry
Enough, this rock, to make a crater in
The nearby earth of near one foot across!
Supposedly the boy was hit first when
The rock came down. Of course we're at a loss
To say how this sequence could be correct.
A crater, then a graze makes much more sense.
Regardless, my concern is if they've checked
The boy for blue triangles. It's intense,
The thought that Sigler's novels could come true!
I wait with bated breath. How about you?

In Which I Face A Weird Dilemma

I am returned, and so pleased to have found

In what I've christened my Mud Room of Squee,

My own pre-ordered copy, strangely bound,

Of J.C. Hutchins' print debut. How he

And Weisman pulled out all the stops! It's come

With a great heap of horror-flair to sift

Through and investigate as I do thumb

Its pages. Where to start, though? I'm adrift.

I've called to hear Zach Taylor's voice mail bit,

And poked around the Brinkvale website, natch.

The podcast prequel gave some hints that fit

My expectations, but there's e'er this catch:

Play with the items, follow where they lead,

Or first open the book and start to read?

What I Wonder As I Wander Around Denver International Airport

Each time I come back home I have some time

To while away while waiting for the van

That is my last leg on this trail of grime

And squalor that gets me back to Cheyenne,

I wander the great teepee pile we call

The Jeppeson Terminal at DIA,

And wonder if there is among them, all

These other wand'rers, one whom I just may

Have met before or known or been flamed by.

I wonder, too, if anyone but me

Is list'ning to the kind of songs that I

Have pumping through my earbuds. There might be

A fan of Marian Call in this same bar!

Or of FZ or Bhtch tunes. How bizarre!

BONUS SONNET: On The iPod Belonging To My Sister

The thing has got more cheese than Tillamook,

My sister's iPod. It's a time machine.

The 80s live forever in her book

(She had a better time back as a teen).

Glass Tiger vies with Journey for her love,

And with Bad Company and Kiss and Bon

Jovi and Queen and Eminem and (of

That last she claims it's walking tunes upon

Which she depends to set the beat) and hey,

No Quarterflash? What's happened to this girl?

A-Ha, she's got that, salted with, I'll say

For fairness' sake, the Foo Fighters and -- pearl!

Some U2 and The Cure and Siouxsie Sioux

She's grown a bit since 1982.

In Which I Consider A Strange Thoroughfare

A farmer's mart that had nary a stalk

Of local, fresh asparagus, I deem

A failure. Nor is this the only shock

To be had here along that driver's dream,

The T.V. Highway, home to ev'ry chain

Store, taco truck, "adult" emporium

And hair salon. Allow me to explain:

Through Beaverton and "Hillsburrito," umm..

And other towns I'm sure, this one highway

Boasts all that Portland proper would forget,

Pushed to the side, hid like that bad toupee

One sported in the 70s. My bet

Is that's how here a Lowe's and Home Depot

Are planted side-by-side in a neat row.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Wish A Certain Podcaster A Very Happy Birthday!

A busy man is Geo Hrab; alas

Not even his industr'ousness can save

Him from th'advance of age, the years that pass

Unasked as we pursue all that we crave.

Each drum he beats announces that more time

Has come and gone; each podcast he records

Names out the best of what each week sublime

Has brought to his attention, and the hordes

Of Geologic fans try each Thursday

To crash his server when the call goes out

That new high silliness has made its way

Onto the internet. Let us all shout

Together, in his honor, "Vibraphone!"

And "Happy Birthday" ere the day has flown.

In Which I Contemplate Oregon Tides

A tide recedes and suddenly great rocks

Come up for air. At least I think there were

Some rocks beneath th'encrusted life and flocks

Of seagulls circling overhead. With her

Dog Jack a-snapping at the waves my sis

And I explored the slipp'ry rocks to find

The sort of things I'd been most sad to miss

The day before. What I had had in mind

Were tide pools like we saw so long ago

In California when I was a kid.

But here tide rocks have much the same, and so

I got my fill of starfish, mussels, did

Observe anenomes, one tiny crab,

And rarer still: a wild sea-going lab.

In Which I Brazenly Risk Being Pulled Down To Sunken Rl'yeh Several Times

Beside us and this lodge where we will pass

Our night tonight, I hear Cthulhu's roar.

A soup of clam cum, goo from mollusk ass

Shark spit, fish urine, seagull snot and more

Doth churn and crash in waves against a mix

Of ground-up glass, shell bits, rocks, plant rot, and

Some severed feet and rubber ducks and sticks.

I guess that stuff is commonly called sand,

The fluid called the sea, but let's be real:

A Great Old One won't live just anywhere

In anywhat. I'm sure, though, that he'd feel

At home wheree'er he wants, would never care

If it were blood or water where he swam

As long as he's believers, which I am.

In Which I Provide An Encomium To A City That Could Be My Spiritual Home

This Portland, Oregon's, my kind of place

The mayor rode his bike in the parade

Along with Segway gangs out keeping pace

Along the route with bands and floats. I'd grade

The total effort "A." To top things off

My dream pub I discovered here this day:

The Lucky Lab, a brewery and trough

For drinkers' dogs (and bicycles, hooray!).

I've yet to mention Pow'lls, but on this trip

I'm prob'ly not to make it there to fall

Upon my knees to angels' song; I'll skip

It just this once, as long as we four, all,

Return to Lucky Labrador's for more

Organic Pale Ale; I do so implore!

In Which I Ponder The Daily Fetch-A-Thon That Is My Sister's Life With Her New Dog

The newest member of our fam'ly's pack

Of crazy dogs, mayhap the craziest

Is Krissy's, a lab mix, whose name is Jack.

Built like a tank, excitable and, yes,

Relentless as a charge of army ants.

His rubber ball must constantly be thrown,

Best into mud or grass, or bedding plants

Along the fence. Long after one has grown

Well sick of playing, after Jack's big tongue

Is coated in a slick of mud and grass

Well mixed with drool, that ball must still be flung

And flung some more, or else Jack will harrass

One with his slimy toys all day and night.

It's what he loves the most, as is his right.

In Which I Gloat Over A Well-Earned Beer

Someone's idea of heaven surely is

Hot chicks with power tools. He'd love today,

When Kris and I were same. To ruin his

Imaginings a bit, a cop held sway

O'er these proceedings; that would be our Dad,

Armed with a hammer, prybar and a scowl

I'd never want turned my way. Yes we've had

Us quite a time. Now I've thrown in the towel

For one day. I must say it ain't half bad,

This deck we built for Krissy, and we've earned

The Bud Light we are gulping on it now,

Exhausted, bleeding slightly and sunburned.

Our next item of bus'ness is some chow,

We'll grill up on my sister's brand-new grill.

Some dead cow and grilled corn, oh yes we will!

Sonnet Duet: An Interview With The One, The Only, MeiLinMiranda

Sonneteers note: This evening I had the rare and lovely opportunity to meet with the fabulous @MeiLinMiranda (author of the hit web serial An Intimate History of the Greater Kingdom in person at a funky little club in Northeast Portland. I had a few questions cranked out beforehand; while she answered them I accepted an invitation to scrawl an extra special Bonus Sonnet on the wall at Rumpspankers. To see that you'll have to pay them a visit or squint at the twitpic here.

O Meilin, what inspired your kingdom's start?

A small attempt to proffer smutty fare.

O Meilin, is Timmin first in your heart?

He is the son that I shall never bear.

Now Emmae's tale -- that's really some strong stuff.

Alas, it shall be less so when I'm done.

It's hot. When do you know it's hot enough?

When readers find it hard to be alone.

The Lover's Temple's wisdom, could it spread?

If only Western culture weren't so staid.

How do you keep this kingdom in your head?

I couldn't if I had not wiki's aid.

Is there a print or aud'iobook in store?

Of course, and ebooks, Kindle, maybe more.

EARLY EDITION: In Which I Laud A Shuttle Driver

My shuttle from Cheyenne took off at six,

Though I was told six-thirty was the time

When I would catch my ride. Oh such a fix

I found myself in! It felt like a crime.

"No problem," said the clerk by phone, "At eight

Another will be by. You'll be just fine;

You shouldn't even find yourself too late

To catch your flight at DIA. At nine

And still no shuttle, I began to freak

A bit, when up pulled wondrous Jim.

His van express for handicapped and weak

Miss Jeanie. All my gratitude to him

For letting me on board, and for his fast

Drive to the airport; I am here at last!

In Which I Become A (Bad) Remote Viewer...For SCIENCE

Well, "Oh, my SCIENCE" where am I right now?

Says Richard Wiseman each morning at eight

(That's my time in Wyoming; must allow

For time zones. At three GMT he'll wait

For us to make our psychic guesses for

The Twitter-based experiment he's made).

We had a test on Monday, and my score

Was what one might expect; were it a grade

It would be "F." This suits me, yes it does;

I'm skeptical of psychics and their claims.

I worry just a bit, though, that because

I disbelieve, I'm buggering their aims.

I hope indeed that I do not sandbag

The data set. That would be quite a drag.

In Which I Become A Clock-Watching Fool

Two days from now, almost right to this hour
I'll be crammed in a nasty airplane seat
Bound for points west. It's barely in my pow'r
To keep my cool. Vacation time is sweet,
E'en when, as I shall do, it's to do work:
My sister's house did not come with a deck,
A common but a not-so-charming quirk
Which needs redressed quite soon; she'll be a wreck
Until the job is done. Sherrods do not
Do well without a place to sit outdoors,
Sip beer and watch the birds from a cool spot
(And by sip beer - that's anything but Coors).
Two days and counting down! Meanwhile I sit
At work on my Friday, and just fidget.