I’m going to have to admit before long
That I seem to be doing time management wrong.
I’ve penciled it in for the week after next,
Which I’d tried just a fortnight ago. I’m perplexed.
Having scheduled it ought to have freed up my mind
To forget it, so why am I always behind?
The calendar’s here to dispense with the need
For this host of old Post-its I don’t ever read,
But it’s constantly full, so I’m starting to doubt
It can help. I’ll look into it, um…three weeks out.
At Least Lenny Used The Whole Rabbit
Clovers with three leaves, not four,
Are fortune-neutral, but a bunny
With three feet is fortune-poor*
Alhough they dine on clover. Funny.
*They’ve no use for bipeds’ money.
The Brutalists
First, I’d like to thank
The Academy for not
Playing me off too–
Beware The Leftovers
Pi Day certainly existed
When Brutus et al. resisted
But, per Roman law, Who hurts
A foe this day gets just desserts.
Naprapping
I thought I’d take a little break
And briefly close my eyes. Mistake!
They’re locked, and I forgot my key.
Who’s dreaming now of knocking? Me.*
*I think. I don’t remember these
Eight boneless fingers made of cheese.
Can someone from my foyer trees
Come dilate my eye-portal, please?
Kitchen Sync
When I want to eat,
It’s nice to be hungry, too.
That’s not guaranteed.
Stout Defense
It doesn’t matter what you say
They’re gonna try it anyway
So if you hit the St. Pat’s scene
Drink beer so dark it won’t turn green
A Short Walk With A Long Pee-er
Rain is cool, but it ain’t snow.
You’ll only need a shovel, though,
To clear six inches from your stoop
If it’s so wet your pet won’t poop
Unsheltered; if they’re wont to doo
In any weather, lucky you!
Éirinnsides Go Everywhere
Roses are red
Leprechauns are green
Except on the inside
But proving it’s mean
Pretty Tragic
The daffodils that ring my yard
Are falling for this spring thing hard.
Their hopeful yellow faces turn
To track the sun; too soon, they’ll learn
That March is mainly shades of gray
With sunbreaks every seventh day
Or so to keep the palette cleansed
Till tulip time. That’s how this ends,
But this year’s daffodils don’t know
They’re doomed. It’s tragic. (Pretty, though.)
TrollPants 2.0 
