Peter, Peter
Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater
Had a wife and couldn’t keep her
Put her in a pumpkin shell
For the resurrection.
Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson
Stuck within my brain by oldtime song—
Lift your glass, Mrs. Robinson,
Clinked in former times to spirit brats
Now in shadow long
May as well we clink our glasses
To our hope—the word of watch
Of people loved by God—
But valued?—what a question!
Peter Piper picked a peck of pipled peckers
A pep of pickered peples Peter Piper picked.
If Peter Piper pecked a pick of prickled pepers
Where is the answer to the quested quotient
That the Son of Fun qui vive?
Rubber baby buggy bumpers
Serve the governess in question.
Hi ho,
Hi ho, it’s off
To the great fear-inspiring Day
We go.
If the Americans drive on the right side of the road,
Do the Brits drive on the left side of the road
Or the wrong side of the road?
Fifth grade levy and the teacher is absent.
Substitute teacher knows her stuff.
“Some of you have nicknames,” she intones.
Fear creeps into my soul. The sub addresses
The far side of the room, and I can breathe again.
“You!” says the sub with her finger a-point.
“What’s your nickname?”
The quiet little girl answers and I cannot hear.
“Okay,” says the sub, as she works ever nearer.
My breathing strains and then it comes—command,
“You!” says the sub with finger aimed at me
And I have no breath to speak but my buddies save the day—
“Boogie!” they announce, and the sub wants to know for sure.
I nod. She says, “Okay.”
It’s official. It’s okay.
Merlin the magician places the sword into the stone
To be unsheathed by only one—the chosen one.
poetchilde finding ink in place of breath
And words in place of stone
Is assigned the part of Merlin
Now complete by the placing of a sacred secret
In a thicket of words for the chosen one—
A sword into the stone—a sword
To make the staid ones scream—a ballyhoo
To cut the veil from God’s face—
As poetchilde wonders who has discerned—
What sword? What stone? What pull?
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