Can one in fact remember the green fantasies of youth?
And then tend to dismember the last tree lines of the truth?
Can hope and despair wallow in the cauldron of the blood,
As witches of the soul predict dread ornaments of flood?
Can anybody tell us where an island might appear,
When all about the waves of doubt no sign of hope draws near.
Charles Dickens wrote "A Christmas Carol," thus Scrooge was embedded.
Sir Thomas More became a saint, but first he was beheaded.
Eubie Blake composed and played the piano in a ragtime way.
Eddie Bracken, comic, starred and sang in films and on Broadway.
Sinclair Lewis wrote "Elmer Gantry" and "It Can’t Happen Here."
Miguel Ferrer, long-time actor, "Twin Peaks" vet, died just this year.
Buster Crabbe, olympic swimmer, played Tarzan and Buck Rogers.
Burt Hooten was a pitcher, mostly for the Cubs and Dodgers.
Alfred Adler was a famed Austrian psychotherapist.
Steve Nash, Canadian, was Suns guard best known for the assist.
John Deere made equipment history inventing his steel plow.
James Spader started out in movies but is on t.v. now.
An Wang is a famed inventor and computer engineer.
Garth Brooks is a country phenom, often artist of the year.
Ashton Kutcher, actor, took Demi and Mila as his choice.
Emo Phillips was a stand up comic with a silly voice.
Jeff Van Note played center for the Falcons, five pro bowls to boot.
Isaiah Thomas, Celts’ guard, is short, but he can score and shoot.
Laura Ingalls Wilder had her Little House on the Prairie.
There was no submarine reliever like Dan Quisenberry.
I heard gongs when there was no palace.
I sensed wrongs where there was no malice.
I averred that worshipping a chalice
is rather odd, although that might be callous.
Seems like all reports of holy visions
are met by a chorus of derisions.
Who amongst us is fit for decisions?
Answers multiply into divisions.
I heard silence in the midst of sound.
Sanity’s abandoned higher ground.
When reality is all around,
elsewhere will be always where I am found.
Seems like science and its many fissions
set the world up for severe collisions.
How is one to heal these deep incisions?
Answers multiply into divisions.
The Indians will pay for the pipeline.
Cleveland is, of course, possessed by gangs.
Bomb the glaciers and tax the water.
Please pull to the curb and be searched.
Mexico will pay for the Alamo.
Bowie will not have died in vain.
Drill until it hurts and stop the trees.
Bow to the flag. Wear your pin prominently.
Since when do we protect stinging insects?
Austin will pay for its housing of sinners.
City limits will be strictly enforced.
The no-fly zone has become the fly zone.
Religion will be compulsory.
Chicago has been traded to Canada.
There is no defensible excuse for sarcasm.
Please leave all possessions on conveyor.
The homeless will be busy building walls.
Get your hat on now or just get out.
His public image is limited, indeed.
His hair is a physical disturbance.
There’s a question as to whether he can read.
It seems his main emotion is perturbance.
He’s pissed off the Aussies and latinos.
He’s insulted women and mocked vets.
His realm is built of hotels and casinos.
He’s got these tiny hands that look like pets.
He’s Donny Rotten, not soon forgotten.
He’ll build a wall and put you into camps.
He’s Donny Rotten, who loves globetrottin’.
And some say he’s the cause of stomach cramps.