The trees are aflame
with a fire that’s soon gone
and the ashes are left
all over your lawn.
for Phil Hart (with apology to Robert Frost)
Whose woods these are I think I know,
their office is in Boise though;
they will not see me stopping here
to cut trees for my bungalow.
My followers won’t think it queer
to take some logs while no one’s near
off property I do not own –
they re-elect me every year.
They give their tin foil hats a shake
to indicate there’s no mistake;
the only other sound’s the sweep
that drooling on the ground will make.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
but I have court dates I must keep;
and logs to take before I sleep,
and logs to take before I sleep.
small and classy,
full of protein,
a boon for farms
from Sprague to Lind –
if I attend
I’ll stay upwind.
some pixie dust too
and money appears
straight out of the blue.
He swam in the pond
with never a care
and a bullfrog ran off
with his underwear.
No Plato here
send lots of money