Cassandra's progeny
The television is his oracle;
The picture is a holding force.
The cable brings a plethora of choice,
And total power in the remote.
'... going over live to ...'
Click!
Her downy moustache rides a growing snarl
Brought on as countless hormones bite.
Her scorn reviles his sleeveless cardigan
And adds that he is impotent.
'... on its five year mission ...'
Click!
His sperm count's normal; that at least he knows,
And this consoles him just a tad,
Though flecks of dinner desecrate his tie,
Which hangs askew above his gut.
'... no closer to resolving the Palestinian ...'
Click!
Her long stampede for higher moral ground,
Though held in check for many hours,
Grows louder, bolder, with each passing year.
Her tongue berates, berates, berates.
'... I've started so I'll ...'
Click!
And so they spar in constant solitude.
It's not the scene the gypsy saw.
The prophecy was children round their feet,
And love and peace and harmony.
'... evicted this week will be ...'
Click!
3 comments:
Lovely poem, Kani, but poor Pupupuro is right off his carrots...
Poor Pupupuro isn't the only one, Anna. (Though he seems to thrive better in Firefox than IE.) I haven't quite picked up your surge of spring-is-coming blogging yet. Ah well.
Mwahaha Kani, you have given me vital clues in my Quest for the Kani IP! Certain mysteries become clearer now...
(tqsjk - a sauce for camel meat popular in the Khazahkstan region)
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