Monthly Archives: March 2020

Parody, Poetry

My Corona

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See, the thing is, Weird Al said not to do this and I’m not even the first. But here’s my version…and a link to the original.  But feel free to sing along with my lyrics below. Very 13 year old boy brain stuff.

 

UPDATE: Friend, Ken Cormier, honored me with this: Please listen.

Oh my little bitty one, bitty bug.
Are you gonna live in some grime, Corona?
Ooh, you make my sneezer run, my sneezer run.
Blow a Kleenex full of slime, Corona
Never gonna stop, give it up.
Such a dirty hand. Always get it up for the touch
of the viral kind. My my my i yi woo.
M M M My Corona

Come a little closer, huh, ah will ya, huh.
Close enough to sneeze in my eyes, Corona.
Keeping you so far away gets to me
Licking down the length my fries, Corona.
Never gonna stop, give it up. Such a dirty hand.
Always get it up for the touch
of the virus guys. My my my i yi woo.
M M M My Corona
M M M My Corona

When you gonna give it to me, give it to me?
It is just a matter of time, Corona
?
Is it just destiny, destiny?
Or is it just a game in my mind, Corona?
Never gonna stop, give it up.
Such a dirty hand. Always get it up for the touch
of the viral kind. My my my i yi woo.
My my my i yi woo.
M M M My Corona
M M M My Corona
M M M My Corona
M M M My Corona

(Apologies to The Knack)

Nature, Poetry

The Parable of the Otter

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The otter floats, playfully aware,
on the currents and the tides.
She dives to examine
an interesting stone.
She turns it every way
in the sunshine,
floating on her back.
She flips it away
and finds another.
It, too, is interesting,
turned in the air,
maybe for the first time in a thousand years
or, perhaps, since last week.
It smells of the water.
It slips away.

She does not keep the interesting stones.
They would weigh her down.
She would drown in her sleep.

She darts to the bottom.
She pries a fish from a crevice
and returns to the surface current,
always floating on her back,
enjoying her lunch.
Sometimes she spies a clam.
She also finds the right anvil stone and,
again floating on her back in the currents,
beats the clam on the stone
she balances on her stomach.
It is primal and
it is dinner.
She releases the clam shell and the stone.
One plunges to the bottom.
The other rocks back and forth in descent.

Tomorrow:
different stones,
different clams.