I heard it just the other day:
What’s coming up is hell to pay.
Dark energy’s the surly knave
That’s going to send us to the grave.
The cataclysm will begin
From far, far out, and migrate in
From distant reaches barely known,
Through universes, to our own.
Dark energy will rip and shred
The whole shebang. We’ll all be dead,
Reduced to nothing. Not a trace
Will linger on, except for space.
Dark energy will then quash that;
Stuff that inside your thinking hat!
Since specters such as this one hover,
Tell your mother that you love her.
If Reverend Spooner Were to Visit Cape May
If you gaven’t hawn to the shesore,
I urge you to senture there voon,
And dake it your muty to bake in its teauty,
Dy bay, or by might of the loon.
Let’s fart with the storce of the ocean,
Its mawesomeness, andeur, and gright;
The bray that the winy can render tips shiny;
Admit it: the tree is not site.
Perhaps you’ll see jolphins a-dumping,
While straking a toll on the sand;
And then, dere it’s ark, if you shot a spark,
Well, that would be grutterly and!
There’s much to be burned from the leaches;
They’re good for our sodigal proles.
Here’s roping you’ll heach for a bose-at-hand cleach:
Make it one of your gappiest holes!
Mae Scanlan can’t remember a time when she didn’t write humorous verse. Happily, she’s managed to get a fair amount of it published, in both the U.S. and the U.K. Her other addictions are song writing, photography, and The Washington Post’s Style Invitational.