Today's Bad Poetry

Or "kids, get off my lawn" poems:

Summer Days

June gallops past in light green shoes,
the days hardly born
when they turn to the blues.
Where are the first brave berries?
All I can find are plastic cherries.

July will enter, humid and ripe.
The days linger on
like stains I can't wipe.
Where is the lettuce I loved as a child?
All I can find is an echo too mild.

August is hardest, brown and hot.
The days are wounded
with sweet-smelling rot.
Where is the moon with August eyes?
All I can find is jetsmoke in skies.

Who took the summer
and made it so flat?
Give me the winter.
I can understand that.


An Ode for August

August is the foulest month of all.
He pretends to rest before
the coming of the fall.
As he totters on his last legs
and smells of sweat and rotten eggs.
Like a party overlong
August has a smell too strong.

And the men who are wild at fifty
glance around with eyes too shifty.


Heh. I don't like the summer weather very much.