glarph cicada

We live in perplexing, yea, multicultural times. In my imaginings, the Poet searches 

for a common source of fascination out of a diverse cosmos suspended in the ionosphere 

above Gaea, that entity we popularly know as “Mother Earth.”

Out with grumps, chumps, and Trump-kins!

I beheld one morn, a ‘Labbit’ munching in the Liriope;

Oh, Woo, What should we do!!

An Ibex, in the Ilex, Is that cool, or how to, Too?

The Cushy, cushioning Palanquin of Kush,

Is that whence arose the provenance of a “Cush” Job,

[Which-by the way, I cannot seem to obtain,]

Oh, the Pain, the pain.

So begin all over again, my beloved Raider–

What, you say, there are Cicadas afoot?
Only one solution– tear it out at the root,

Grab your iron skillet and FRY–

Eat the crustacean, enjoy– and so to bed,

Good- BYE!