To tattle tale on spies is most unwise.
They’ll boil you in contempt and baste with lies.
Though vigilance defines a freedom lover,
they’ll put you in the ground and call it cover.
Their evil is religious in its purity.
They face a task prodigious: your security.
Whatever seems suspicious in your eyes
can be corrected by a drop of spies.
Gigantic youth.
Ruler of the jungle gym.
Chewing crayons like pez.
Unearthing the sandbox.
Grown to colossal teen.
Eating the phone book.
Pimples like doughnuts.
Squashing the school bus.
Redistributing. Redecorating.
Head of the class.
Shoulders of the world.
King Kong of the prom.
Mascot. Team. Fan base.
I’m going to buy some chickens
down in Chinatown.
On Kneeland Street, you hear them bleat,
their entrails on the ground.
They’re disemboweled daily.
The pigeons have a feast.
It seems an end, alas, my friend,
too foul for even beast.
But people need their chicken,
like people need their bread.
When I buy two, old Mister Woo
says, "With or without head?"
He’ll chop those heads off for you,
but I still take them home.
I decorate faux reprobate,
in early chickendome.
We love your work.
But it hurts our eyes.
Though the meaning is clear,
all the words are fuzzy.
It starts out on a high note
but never ends.
Though it’s perfect for this time,
this is not the place.
We suggest you send it elsewhere.
But don’t mention our name.
You are an excellent typist.
We recommend rearranging keys.
The cows have overrun the field, making the carrots juice.
A band of gypsies in the trees have cut the apples loose.
And morning finds the farmer in the dirt down on his knees.
He’s trying to find the culprit who has killed his precious peas.
Bleeding agriculture comes as something of a shock.
It is the leading reason all the farms are now in hock.
There’s your major bleeders like the grape and the tomato.
Then there’s those that scar to death like turnips or potato.
It’s no wonder Cesar Chavez leapt the leap eternal,
watching corn, battered and torn, surrender its last kernel.
