Ode to a Grecian Urp.

The only downside to writing a piece of bad poetry is that you spend the next day rhyming about trivial things and wind up running off in the middle of making your bed to go write some piece of brain-ial waste on an old calendar page (because the children have made off with all the scratch paper in their quest to doodle over every drawing surface in the house) so you will remember it, and in doing so, you forget about making the bed and all other household chores, especially dinner, and your children have to eat waffles that Dad made all because you had Seussian rhyme-scheming earworms about pens, baking soda, laundry and Barbie dolls eating through all the neurons in your gray matter. Jim swore he didn't mind making waffles last night. And the kids didn't complain about it either. I went off to knit, once I got a decent bad poem written.

And here it is, providing you haven't gotten bored already and moved onto another website by now: (and after reading the following, you might wish you had)


Ode to Oatmeal

Oh, I love my oatmeal
Every morning after seven
In front of the cupboard I kneel
To grab that carton of heaven.

I dig how you're chewy
I dig how you're bland
I dig how you're gooey
Always fresh, never canned.

Other plusses: you're cheap
You can be fixed lots of ways
Fiber and protein--you've got a heap
In my tummy, you stays.


I would have included a picture to go with my poem, but I ate my oatmeal before I could take a picture of it.