The Seeds Of Maddness

It was winter in the summertime,
and yet I saw no snow.
Each unfurled leaf a mite of spite,
the garden gnomes a guiding light,
as you already know.

The count was in his counting house
eating all the honey.
What, you think he carries cash
and has a polymorphic ring-tone stash?
Or were you trying to be funny?

The toast beacons once again
to all the brave and true:
“Who will quest forth
beyond the porch
for my enchanted glue?”

Abe Lincoln was the first in line
for this most sacred quest.
“Give me your hand,
and understand,
before you stands the best!”

Once there was a time when
before the die was cast,
One would deign
to rule and reign
with ten feet in the past.

Rules, like jewels and threads and spools
are nothing if not neat.
But mapping out the universe
in streaming telepathic verse
is where the mind’s complete.

So who or what forgives those
who boil off the stew?
You know the ones,
with fake ray-guns,
who drink the bitter brew?

The ones who dance before they crawl,
the ones who set sail east?
Whose cooking pales
in log-base scales
to those who bake with yeast?

I saw a master painter
on her canvas yesterday.
She drafted out a sunset,
handed me an amulet,
and sent me on my way.

And that is why the summer sky
this cold Octember night
is streaked with hues
of crime scene clues,
all dancing on the blight.

Each snide riptide is ten feet wide,
where hidden cat scientists play.
“The testing stops,”
their Provost chops,
“when all the dogs are stray!”

Melting in the frozen sun,
the snowman throws the switch.
The people gather near the docks
to reset all their household clocks;
the mainframe pops a glitch.

Verily, I must admit
that four times one is two.
No, that’s plain wrong,
so bang the gong,
we’ll start the game anew.

It was winter in the summertime,
and yet I saw no snow.
But where there’s hope
and rope-a-dope
the seeds of maddness grow.