Friday, January 18, 2013

Uhhh, what?


Questions without answers
There’s a bridge that crosses o’er a stream,
connecting parking lot with deli.
Where wondrous hot dishes steam
And Limburgers are exceeding smelly.
Each day as I cross this span,
Chill waters gurgle underneath.
Alert, the roiling flood I scan,
For the trolls which surely lurk beneath.

They clutch unwitting bagel seekers,
And drag them to the depths below.
They steal their wallets, and their sneakers,
and show them where the wild geese go.
Then launch them in a foamy geyser,
to land disheveled on the shore.
A good deal sadder (but no wiser),
to flee, and to return no more

I know the secret of these trolls,
and so each day I toss a coin.
To where the foamy water rolls,
and thus the sodden wights enjoin.
To answer questions by the ton,
Which plague me as I strive for sleep
What’s the square root of minus one?
And how does it relate to sheep?
Should one wake a sleeping dog?
When calm and peaceful it lies napping?
Can you digitize an analog?
What is the sound of one hand clapping?

If a tree within a forest falls when just one soul's around,
And that poor soul proves to be deaf and cannot hear a sound
will there be sound, or sound unheard, or, I further query;
A unique sequence of events which validate string theory?
No answer do I e’er receive from moist and churlish troll,
thus to the deli man I wend, and buy a buttered roll.
And a coffee large in size, no sugar, extra cream,
and turn and toss another coin and cross again the stream.

Dear friend I must advise you; should you chance upon this deli,
To merely pause a moment, buy some eats to fill your belly,
Toss a coin to calm the trolls, and keep you safe and dry
But don’t ask them any questions ‘cause they never do reply.

©2013 Mac Pike All Rights Reserved


  1. Surely this qualifies as doggerel for Helium's fine tomes...

  2. I've been looking for some Limburger. Going to ask my dad to bring some when he comes for Easter. I may end up on the couch, but it's been ages since I had any.

  3. Actually be Heliumistic standars it qualifies me to be the poet Laurie ate. By anyone elses standards it's effing doggerel.