Inspired authors (lucky lads) attest
That when in them the gentle muses move
It feels a bit like childbirth, and so I
Attempt via analogy, to prove
That when you on a whim pick up the pen
And having cursed in print your writer's block,
Recurse and curse recursion, it's a bit
Like playing with your (Editor: what schlock!)
Both acts are pleasant, private, and begin
With hand on tool, till at some length they loose
A substance on a sheet . You have preserved
The seepage of your pen, and so I muse:
Perhaps somewhere, you keep the other's issue.
I sneeze to think! but must decline your tissue.
I wrote this one for BASS, a group designed
To foster thoughts of skepticism and
To entertain such scientific minds
As find UCLA to be quite bland.
On Missionary Work
As Summer with a last wet breath retires
And from the East the Santa Anas blow,
The hills become brown tinder, tender fires;
We solemnly to alma mater go.
But Hark! O' Bruin skeptics, to the sound,
That bids us bare a swift impetuous paw,
Of flip-flopped feet that echo on the ground,
Which fishy freshman owners did there draw.
These curious creatures must, before they spawn,
Swim upstream to a bachelors degree.
No matter, Bruins, snatch them up anon,
And let them breathe air rarefied, and free.
To those that gasp, and for return fain wish,
I ask sincerely, are ye men or fish?
This one is just an email to my friend.
So I, fried friar, of a Friday find
Now having from my monkish jungle fled
That tho' one leaves steel trees with ease behind
thought's thinning silver string must break to bed.
But lo! My inbox beeps, to my alarm
I find a message beckoning me hence
Alas. I first must heed my pillow warm
For sleep's the verdict when the judge is sense.
But when I wake refreshed to face the day
My car will find your house without delay.