Zug Island

Take me there, please, where men cough and wheeze,

Where emissions and smoke swirl and dance on a breeze,

Where girders and stacks and pipes are the trees;

An oasis of these is Zug Island.

Spellbound, I gaze ‘cross the strait where I stand,

To a factory island — no beaches, no sand;

Instead a fine film of dark soot coats the land.

Life would be grand on Zug Island.

The warm orange glow of a flame paints the sky,

Cargo ships laden with steel pass me by,

A blast furnace calls; I can hear its faint cry. 

My fantasies lie on Zug Island.

Gas, stench, and steam are its gifts to the air.

The River Rouge issues a toxic flow there,

And you may find verdant land, but it's rare.

No worry or care on Zug Island.

 

Zug Island Revisited

  

No beauty I see in these nightmarish scenes

Of smoke-blackened buildings and monstrous machines,

Hills of scrap metal and rusty ravines;

No ends, only means on Zug Island.

A sample of air shows traces of lead,
Forecasting storm clouds of danger ahead;
Left to continue unchecked it may spread.
My heart beats with dread for Zug Island.

Then there are strange haunting noises therefrom,
Described as an eerie rumbling and hum;
A monotone drone, in scorn named by some,
The Devil's Steel Drum on Zug Island.

Weigh the effects and consider the cost;

The resources, trees, and land we exhaust,

The water and air, polluted and lost.

What bridge have we crossed to Zug Island?

Once I saw a UFO

 Once I saw a UFO,
It flew from sky to sky.
I could not say to where it went,
It simply left my eye.

Late that night, while sound asleep,
I felt a presence near;
It probed my brain, it scanned my form,
From back to feet to ear.

Suddenly, there came a thought:
Sleep paralysis was this.
It was a dream and nothing more;
I drifted back to bliss.

UFOs yes, space creatures no;
A fact needs proof to be.
From countless stars and galaxies,
No aliens we see.

From Bach To Bieber

I don’t understand how some fans can rave,
for the pop star they call Justin Bieber.

J.S. Bach himself must roll in his grave
and in disbelief cry, “Ach, du lieber!”

The Illegal (A Parody Poem)

He grasps the bag with crooked hands;

Close to the sum that he demands,

Wrong'd by the lawful world, he stands.

The silent bank alarm now calls;

He watches cops outside the walls,

And like a culprit dolt he falls.

  

The Eagle by Alfred, Lord Tennyson:

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;

Close to the sun in lonely lands,

Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;

He watches from his mountain walls,

And like a thunderbolt he falls. 

Advice On Playing The Lottery

Don't wait till you're old and tottery,

With bones as brittle as pottery,

And eyes so weakened and watery.

Play now dammit! Win the lottery!