I could write of the Earth, the beauty here,
the sway of the trees, the sway of the seas.
Instead I will drone for long-lasting years,
because my teachers wouldn’t answer my pleas.

The majestic horses, parading about,
will snicker and rear in fear of the line
that is as joyously alive as a drought.
Professors set deadlines, then come grade fines,
keeping my inner slave as the writer.
And the volcanoes will erupt in pale.
A ham sandwich from a rusty old diner,
the hype of a five-star restaurant gone stale,
the most bombastic showcase of boring,
the dish prepared just before loud snoring.