A Frenchman was about to eat his food. He loathed to share his dinner with a fly, And since one pesky fly had dared intrude, Resolved at once this fly would have to die! Dispensing electricity in sparks That fizzled from a swatter he now held, Our Frenchman chased the fly, but left no marks, Since flies are so adroitly self-propelled … What happened next brought kudos to the fly: An undetected gas leak filled the room To spark a blast that blew the roof sky-high. For miles around the neighbors heard it boom … Luck blessed the man. Just minor burns had he. You know the rest: The fly escaped scot-free!
Dear Students and Citizens alike
It’s a scientific fact
That Democracy and Covid spike
When people interact
But for the health of your fathers and mothers
We ask that you sequester
And that the Electoral College, like so many others
Be closed for at least this semester
“And then they have cans of soup. Soup. And they throw the cans of soup….
That’s better than a brick because you can’t throw a brick; it’s too heavy.
But a can of soup, you can really put some power into that, right?” —Express
Bombs, like swords, are positively feudal,
Next to the potent force of chicken noodle.
“Accidents happen every day, and the U.S. sees about 35,000 per year from lawn mowing alone.
This leads to an average of 90 deaths per year from lawn mower accidents… people are more likely
to die from this than they are from many common fears, such as shark attacks and spider bites.” —SierraBooster.com
Who knew they are so dangerous?
We thought they were our friends,
the pushing and the riding types.
Well, that’s how friendship ends.
You trust them and you go along,
no worry in your head.
Then suddenly, your ass is grass.
They mow you, and you’re dead!
In French graveyards the losers lie,
Those suckers staring at the sky.
Who says Marines are oh-so-brave
When their own lives they couldn’t save? I like the guys who didn’t die!
The dead are schmucks. A hundred years
Have passed since they were buried here.
I’m worried about my well-coiffed hair; It’s raining there.
Who were the bad guys anyway?
Who cares about this war today?
Let’s eat a burger, play a round,
Not visit losers in the ground.
Forever suckers there they lay, In French graveyards.
A dream showed no more courses to be planned, No tests to grade, no meetings to be at— Except for workshops in some far-off land, Morocco maybe, Spain, or Montserrat … Each time this dream recurred it would require Researching in exotic meeting sites In which I’d give a talk and then retire To think professor’s thoughts through foreign nights, Upholding highest standards, even though Sequestering with scholars on a beach, Pontificating on the things I know, Relieved of grading since I couldn’t teach … One day I did retire. Then Covid came. Far-off is still far-off. The dream’s the same!
“For now, and for my beloved children, it will be less drama, more mama.” —Kellyanne Conway, resigning from her White House role as Counselor to the President
We’ll miss you, Kellyanne; farewell!
Your parting rhyme detracts
Not one scintilla from the spell
You wove from roving facts.
