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Siesta

by Mike

For those of you who are pressed for time
I offer up this simple rhyme
To those who are driven to work like a dog
And feel guilty for times passed as bumps on a log
Don’t be sorry or sad for the occasional day
When you watched the time fly and go fritter away
And although it’s been said “You’ll sleep when you’re dead,”
If you’re lying in bed, don’t fret with your head
Enjoy the slow pace and the break from the race
And let go of the pitter and patter and pace
So here’s to the moments when a person can say
“I’m quite content with my covers and right here I will stay!”

Just Checking

by Sam

If yesterday you ate a sock
Would you eat a foot today?
And if tomorrow you fight a hawk
Would your elbows start to sway?
Would you engage in French swordplay?
Would you start to drift away?
Would you jam out to sweet raggae?
Would you slap that hot DJ?
Would you engage in rough horseplay?
Would you loom in my doorway?
Would you listlessly obey?
Would you wear a smart toupee?
Would you remain a sad cliche?
Would you hate all this clever wordplay?

Words that Would fight back if you pushed them into a locker

by Mike

• axiom
• scimitar
• swarthy
• quasar
• musk
• exacerbate

Jeff

by Mike

Jeff grew up working on a turkey farm. No lie. I worked with him years ago. He used to tell us these glorious battle stories: him against the dreaded turkey, fiercest of all on god’s green earth. No lie. His eyes would get wild, and a fever pitch would creep into his voice and he would impart on us these tales that would undoubtedly give us the knowledge that could one day save us. About how he would stride, fearless, warrior like, through the throngs of these killer beasts. This situation would surely send a lesser man to his grave. No lie. But not Jeff, oh no, he alone possessed the knowledge, the cunning, the – dare I say – heroism, to dispatch this worthy adversary to the next world. No lie.

Words that wouldn't fight back if you pushed them into a locker

by Sam

Sand

by Mike

          “Timmy! Stop that! What do you think you’re doing?” his dad yelled. Timmy stopped mid-chew, realizing he had been caught. Sand trickled from the corner of his mouth. A small plastic shovel dangled from his right hand spilling its contents back to whence they had come. His cap was pushed back a little bit, and some of his bangs sprouted over his forehead. He had no sunglasses, so he had to squint a little, and cover his eyes with his left hand, to see his dad.
          Timmy’s dad came tromping over the dune, flip flops kicking up sand with every step, sun hat flapping excitedly around his ears, frisbee in hand, sun glinting off his sunglasses.
          “Get that out of your mouth.” Timmy spat a big clump of sand back to its home. His father was standing in front of him now, hands on his hips. “I thought I had taught you well, brought you up right, and here I find you doing this.”
          Timmy looked down. He knew he had done wrong, but he just couldn’t help it. It tasted so good. And what was the harm, really. It was just a little sand.
          “Now, son, we’ve been over this before. Beach sand is not for eating. It’s not good for you. You know that, don’t you?” Timmy nodded. “It’s got a lousy texture, no nutritional value, and is also probably toxic. Now if you want, we’ve got some good, fine, nutrient rich desert sand at home. You want that?” Timmy nodded again, then took his father’s hand as they walked back towards the car, trudging over dune after dune of delicious looking treats.