Summer’s fell by winter’s sting,
Hope held out only for the spring,
A day upon which I will sing,
Glorious praise to the spaghetti king.
Here’s the one who holds the ring,
It is with her I’ll have a fling,
Metal makes the bell go ding,
Some other word that ends with -ing.
In meditation I search for something,
Not a higher power, glorious and thumping,
But inner peace with little stressing,
I’ll always come up guessing.
In a fight, I’ll go down swinging,
Tis the only path, aside from singing.
Ryan S. Kinsgrove