Longing to Yearn

by Steve Mitchell

And now, a classy poem.

Would I could escape this earthbound hour,
with fearsome, trumpet blasts, the harnessed power

of flatulence,

I’d launch myself aloft above the- WAIT!

Stop! STOP!

Flatulence?

Really?

That means farts! We looked it up. What are you trying to pull? Shut it down. This isn’t classy. This is terrible.

SHUT. IT. DOWN.

*ahem*

*So sorry about that, Ladies and Gentlemen. It’s always the quiet ones. Unfortunately, we have nothing else scheduled, so…

Oh. Well, here’s something. It’s a haiku from the archives, previously unseen. It’s a little old and it’s not very classy, but, alas. Enjoy.

darkest December-
it’s 1975
and still no Wi-Fi

—-

© Steve Mitchell 1975

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