It’ll teetotal all of your sums.

Your pals will be way out there chomping on stars,

but you’ll just be left with the crumbs.

A brain tires out by the end of the day,

all the synapses going to glue.

But as soon as you drink, it enervates think,

and just wait until you have two.

But now a buzzkill. Results go downhill

quite quickly when drinks number three.

And, by number four, you might need the door,

and the floor may be filled with debris.

Then, when you hit five, you’ll still feel alive,

but your brain cells will be in lockdown.

And, should you reach six, you’ll be in a fix.

Officially, you’re in drunk town.

So, stay on alert. Don’t drink ’til you’re hurt.

It’s a tippling matter you’ll learn.

When things start to blur, it’s time to defer.

Sobriety must have its turn.

I whispered to an ant

who’d climbed my shadow.

My right arm was a drawbridge

back to nature you won’t see

on Rachel Maddow.

But ants will not be waylaid,

and in moments it was back

and with a friend.

There must be something up there.

Ants believe,

but it is seldom they pretend.

That stuff doesn’t interest me.

Lil Nas X coming out

is what it is all about.

Kim Jong’s missiles may concern,

until Mighty Ducks return.

New Holmes entry on Netflix

will pump many t.v. dicks.

Tornadoes ripping the south:

don’t get too down in the mouth.

In Australia, plagues of mice

makes what goes down here look nice.

Though we face a returned foe,

Georgia devil raised, Jim Crow.

GOP voter suppression

leaves a clear racist impression.

Democracy might die in shock.

Watch it streamed live on Peacock.

And those without an arsenal aren’t cool.

Man can’t even get a decent massage any more.

And those guns that they carry ain’t old school.

Got bombs and vests and sprays for pests

and long gun rapid fire.

We’re turning back to the Olde West,

where more souls will expire.

There’s good and bad on both sides,

and they’re all allowed to carry.

Unfortunately, it’s the good ones

we most often bury.

Melt down the golden medals and distribute on PayPal.

Forget the roadside run from Fukushima with the torch.

Postpone a year for Covid fear, stay home or on the porch.

One hundred twenty days of running with the cursed flame.

And through the meltdown site as if it were part of a game.

News sources say the current flame’s already been blown out.

They relit with a backup torch. It’s what it’s all about.

And do we need proof now the world knows how to run and swim?

In many places folks can’t even get into a gym.

For those who’ll sit at home to see who stays inside their lane,

the process and expenditure are not seen as insane,

but morale boosters showing our conventions must sustain.

Somewhere inside, an old Greek gene is nagging at the brain.

It’s just a game, without intent, to minimize the pain,

an ancient entertainment we are told must never wane.

But, fifteen thousand athletes all gathered at this time

seems to reflect a state somewhere between nonsense and crime.

In twenty years, predictions have Olympic sites on Mars.

And, after that, Venusians may be dancing with the stars.