Perhaps Sunday will be a day of poetry.
It certainly is a fine day to curl up in the aesthetic recesses of one’s own mind, jittery from intake of coffee and cozy from an outfit made of sweaters.
Who might I be,
If we were playing soldiers? Well, let me tell you;
I’d be the one with rosy cheeks,
An affinity for bubblegum and soft fleecy gloves.
I’d wave my sheathed hands to notify victory,
Staking this dirt with an impressive
Blow from my branch sword.
Who might you be? Well, let me tell you;
You would be the one with a canker sore
On the top of your lip
But a deep and abiding fondness
For feeding stray kittens.
Your cankers we accept in exchange for your kindness,
Although sometimes the enemy pokes fun at you for it.
Where might we be? Well, let me tell you;
We’d be fighting in the Outback
On the side of the Planet.
We would meet fellow soldiers
With fellow affinities
And hankerings for glory,
And we’d probably enlist them, too.
Why are we fighting? Well, let me tell you;
The Planet’s in trouble
and she’s calling for aide,
Someone with strong jaws and warm hands
And selfless deformity.
That last one’s you, you know.
She’s asked for us, that’s why.
Who are we fighting? Well, let me tell you;
We’re fighting against those
Who don’t understand how to formulate kindness
Who don’t comprehend the
Magic of servitude
Instead claiming greatness undeserved.
The Planet doesn’t so much care for those chums,
She told me herself.