Stop The Alien Migrants

Having ever eavesdropped on their alien babbling,
We’ve known to reach the stars was man’s desire,
But long dismissed their science as primitive dabbling
(Compared to ours, akin to taming fire).

If ignorance is bliss, then let’s admit it:
We considered them ripe for conquest, if at all,
But today their scientists declared “We did it!”
And that's why I say it's time we build a wall.

A poem incorporating 5 random words: ALIEN, BABBLING, BLISS, DESIRE, RIPE

The Unread Tome

I know some classic books, like Moby Dick,
Are such my education should include.
But anytime I start a tome that thick,
I always find I’m just not in the mood.

My eyes glaze over, my brain turns to brick;
The inner pages may as well be glued.
I’d rather watch the latest action flick,
About some kick-ass chick with attitude.

But lately, when we lie in bed at night,
I tend to face your faceless hairy dome.
Though lovely, haloed by the nightstand light,
The face I miss is buried in some tome.

Perhaps if I read more we’d talk about it.
The mere thought makes me sleepy, so I doubt it.

Santa Claus is coming...and he’s pissed

Santa Claus is coming and he isn't feeling well.
Mrs. Claus has menopause and makes his life a hell.
Yesterday, he gave up smoking, and those just begin the list!
Suffice to say that, 'tis the season to be jolly"—but he's pissed!

Santa knows what you are thinking though your walls be made of lead.
He has super x-ray vision and he sees in infra-red.
By new miracles of science he can see inside your head:
Every dirty thought, transmitted by the elves beneath your bed.

Santa's on a fat-free diet and his shorts have too much starch;
He's been having nightmares lately, so he hasn't slept since March;
Rudolph learned his nose was cancerous, so he slit his reindeer wrists,
So, they've canceled his insurance and now Santa Claus is pissed!

Santa knows when you are sleeping, and he knows when you’re awake,
And he knows who you’ve been sleeping with, and knows what drugs you take,
And he keeps a list of Communists who say that he’s a fake;
His elves have infiltrated Keebler, so be good for goodness’ sake!

Santa Claus is coming on a sleigh that's built for speed!
All his reindeer shoot up steroids and snort cocaine with their feed.
There's no way you can outrun them; it’s pointless to resist.
Godzilla looks like Tinker Bell when Santa Claus is pissed.

Fur Storm

A stoat during Winter’s an ermine.
An ermine in Summer’s a stoat.
If it springs and you fall, then it’s vermin
A damned weasel affixed to your throat!

We’re supposed to use hues to determine—

By its brown or white fur—how to vote;
But I say if teeth jut when it’s squirmin’,
It’s a weasel—until it’s a coat.

Some find a fur-garment prestigious,
Think the varmint looks fine on their form;
Others hold that to harm it’s egregious;
Fur as fashion’s a fatuous norm!

Yet when breezes or blizzards besiege us,
It’s the one who wears white who’s kept warm.
While brown fur is an anti-rain aegis.
Is there any escape from this storm?

A challenge poem incorporating 5 random words: AEGIS, ERMINE, FATUOUS, JUT, KEPT

Stopping by a Feral Lab on a Snowy Evening*

Whose dog this is, I’d have to guess.
No tags that I can see, unless
They’re camouflaged by fur and muck.
--It’s possible he’s ownerless.

To be a feral dog must suck
Surviving by his wits and luck
On vermin meals and scavenged snacks
While dodging the dog-catcher’s truck.

If he lets his attention lapse
He’ll end up in the catcher’s traps
Then be imprisoned. Or, worse fate,
Run over by by a car, perhaps.

I’d like a dog, at any rate.
Maybe he’d like to be my mate.
I’ll offer him this bone as bait.
I’ll offer him this bone as bait.

*(with apologies to Robert Frost)