I'm not sure if you've heard the rumor

I'm not sure if you've heard the rumor,
But truth be told there's just two humors:
One is blue and labelled satisfaction.
The other's frustration and its company inaction.

It is too late

It is too late.
I have taken too long to bed,
And now I cannot shut my eyes
For fear of being tired when I wake.
Out my window stands a broad gate,
Spear-sharped, long and lank.
Shadows inhabit its grates,
So where in light surety waits,
In its place illusions my mind creates.

A frequenting tom
Is again on the prowl,
Pouncing his way down the rough concrete aisle.
He jumps on my barrier and guards me with stare,
As the moonlight allumes the bleached hue of his hair,
'Til the shriek of an errant call gives him a scare.
His paw lands on the peak of a pin iron pike.
A silent reaction echoes shrilly through the night,
And with no meow he leaps away.
I'm sleepy now, so long today.

Advice

I am a traveler,
Long since wandering through woods.
In the cold and hot
Whether drenched in rain or hit by hail
I walk.
In my years of traveling
Seldom have I stopped,
And the several times I have
Now I wish I had not,
For far too often charlatans and bandits
My purse they had sought,
And held no qualms whether or not
My heart beat boldly
Or my sullied corpse would rot.

And here you are a traveler,
Wandering too.
Where are you traveling, why, and with who?
Take off your pack, rest, take my place.
Use my old kerchief to wipe the sweat from your face.
Now, friend, don't panic, don't scream, and don't run,
And you won't have to meet the raw end of my gun.
I'll have all your money,
And away I will race.
Have fun.

War!

These are the shirts and pants we don
When Uncle Sam calls the fighting on.
While mama's crying on the lawn
Papa's pipe puffs short and long.
Into the fray like leaping pawns
We'll meet the bishops' bayonets
Approaching them without regret.
Our shot will cry in bloody moans,
In sardine cans we're air-mailed home.
We'll charge and scream and win the war!
It's honor we are fighting for
Or God or gold or nothing more.
Our heels are flush, our scalps are shorn,
We'll prove ourselves in uniform!

Nothing

Grass's leaves
Blow by the noontime breeze
And bow on bended knees
Beneath twelve cypress trees' tight shade
In an ovular Appian glade
Commissioned by Julius Caesar
To please her.

Feminism in the 69th Century

There once was a man with no shoes and no bed,
He'd no gold in his pouch nor a hat for his head.
The man could have sold his only son for bread
But chose to sell his wife and daughters instead,
So in exchange for petty silver they would give head,
And their tight fitting, flattering clothing they'd shed.

The boy would constantly cry to his father and whine
Where has mommy been all of this time?!
I love you my boy, his father would say,
But when it comes to family business stay out of my way!
I'm the man of the house, the one who is able
To put nutritious fresh food on the table.
Your sisters and mother live in a brothel
Where living conditions are let's just say awful,
But I'd sell them all again with no quarrel
If I though it'd buy you a waffle!

Paranoia!?

What shiftless spectres can appear
At the passing of the midnight hour?
As the moon plays lightly on the flowers
In the clay pot jar garden below.

In the dark grow the fruit of the night,
Stemmed from creepers that grasp the air,
And branch into the weary willing eye.
I'm Really High.