The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

My Day on the Way to Pittsburgh

I caught this morning, morning's minion
Who saw something as beautiful as a tree,
While listening to the moaning in the bar,
Around eleven, crying Nevermore.
Alas, my country, it's of you,
Whose love is like a bed, arose,
And if you keep your wits and shout about you,
I'll count the ways your wits do flout and clout you.
The old order changeth, make a gnu anew
The barroom's floor's face's cover's is glue.
This isn't your parent's poem, mind you,
Our future's in you, shoved up tight with rue.
Forget everything we ever told you,
We're going to rock your rocks off into the night.
So what? this morning, caught the Morning Minion,
Calculated tree and moaning rose and cried.
That's about it, caught the 1:31, read the Onion,
Slept a bit, arrived, survived.

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