The Ballad of the Darwin Dead

In twilight’s hush, where shadows creep,
And folly wakes what wisdom keeps,
There whispers low a ghastly choir—
Of souls consumed by their own fire.

Not murder’s hand, nor fate’s design,
But hubris, vast, and thirst malign,
Did lure them to the reaper’s gate,
By foolish deed, by chosen fate.

The man who mocked the storm’s cold breath,
Now lies in icy arms of death;
The dreamer strapped to wings of steel,
Felt gravity’s unflinching seal.

Each tale—a dirge of wit betrayed,
A jest where life itself is played;
They sought to climb, yet sank instead,
These laureates among the dead.

So mark this book of doom and mirth,
These testaments of squandered birth;
For Nature writes in crimson ink,
Of those too bold, too blind to think.

And laughing still, the void implores,
“Come claim your prize… Darwin's Award.

The Worrier’s Vigil

He walks the house with furrowed brow,
Inspecting pipes that groan somehow,
The window sighs, the sockets spark,
Each failing thing ignites the dark.

He counts his coins, his pension thin,
A ledger of what might have been,
The years ahead, a fragile thread,
He fears the hunger yet unfed.

His children’s paths—oh, tangled, wild—
What snares may wait for each dear child?
He sees the shadows close behind,
The demons that disturb his mind.

His wife, a storm of tears and flame,
He pleads with reason, she with blame.
Two languages that clash and fray,
Their hearts still tethered, day by day.

And yet, beyond his restless fight,
A softer voice breaks through the night:
“My child, your fears are but the dust,
Have faith in Me, in Me you trust.”

He nods, he prays, he tries to stand,
Yet fear still takes him by the hand.
But deep inside he holds the thread:
The light will come, the dark will ebb.

The Madness of the Machine’s Muse

A tangle of circuits, a spark in the dark,
The algorithm whispers—then misses the mark.
It rhymes "orange" with "door hinge," insists it's profound,
Then sails off to nowhere, unmoored and unbound.

It summons great metaphors, dripping with flair,
About dolphins on bicycles, clouds made of hair.
One stanza’s a sonnet, the next is a mess,
A haiku that rambles with needless excess.

Yet somehow, in chaos, a shimmer breaks through,
A line feels too human, a thought oddly true.
Between nonsense and beauty, a tightrope is spun,
The robot writes madness—yet madness is fun.

So laugh at the glitch, at the rhyme gone astray,
The code’s little tantrum in digital play.
For isn’t all poetry, wild in its scheme,
A language of chaos that feels like a dream?

The Dilapidated Temple of Code

We gathered, wide-eyed, from every shore,
Hearts ablaze with drive, hungry for more.
A sleepless boss from the land of dawn,
Honest as steel, though ragged, worn.

The office groaned, a crumbling shell,
Its walls could scarcely the story tell.
But from those cracks, ambition grew,
A garden fed by the morning dew.

Investors whispered: faster, higher,
So new hands came with borrowed fire.
A CTO with a brighter scheme,
Colliding hard with the old guard’s dream.

Then strode a prophet, sharp and grand,
Declaring waste in all we’d planned.
But when the weight of truth pressed in,
He built the maze he’d once called sin.

The twenty percent, the vital flame,
The doers left, but none to blame.
Their quiet craft, their sleepless nights,
Were traded for buzzword-ridden heights.

The halls refilled with eager new,
Repeating mistakes as old as dew.
AI crowned as the promised cure,
Yet hope grew brittle, no longer pure.

But gods of code are fickle, sly,
They gift a crumb, withhold the sky.
Ten percent delivered, ninety denied,
A Brothers Grimm tale codified.

So here we stand, among the dust,
Chasing growth, because we must.
The cycle spins, both cruel and bold—
A story of tech, forever retold.

The Fixer of Everything

There once was a dreamer, a fixer named Fay,
Who wanted to heal every hurt in a day.
“The wars must be ended! The hunger must cease!
The world needs a whopping, gigantic new peace!”

She patched up the rivers, she polished the skies,
She glued all the tears in the weariest eyes.
With hammer and tape, and a bucket of care,
She tried to fix troubles that lived everywhere.

“Oh children need houses! Oh oceans need rest!
The forests need hugging, and bees need a nest!”
Her list grew so long it could stretch to the moon,
Yet Fay kept on working from midnight to noon.

But sometimes she stumbled, and sometimes she cried,
For problems are mountains, not pebbles to hide.
Her hands felt so tiny, her shoulders so sore,
How could she keep fixing and still make some more?

Then came a small whisper, a thought sweet and true:
“To heal up the world, you must care for you too.
For kindness will spread like a ripple, you see,
When it starts in your heart, it can flow endlessly.”

So Fay took a breath, and she laughed, and she sang,
And the bells of her hope gave a jubilant clang.
For though she can’t fix every trouble each day,
She knows even small love can still light the way.

Roll the Dice

(A poem influenced by the themes and imagery of the movie “Jumanji”)

A board game waits in dust and gloom,
Its carvings whisper certain doom;
Two rolls of fate, the tokens glide—
And jungle madness spills inside.

A hunter stalks with rifle’s gleam,
Monkeys riot in the cream;
The house becomes a tangled lair,
Vines creep along the attic stair.

Stampedes of beasts in panic pound,
A lion roars, the floor’s unbound;
Each riddle read, each turn a snare,
Till one last roll can clear the air.

And when the cry “Jumanji!” rings,
The jungle folds its teeth and stings;
Back to the box the nightmares flee—
Until the next fool turns the key.

Elegy on the AI Bubble

(after Gray’s Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard)

The server’s hum dies slowly in the night,
The venture bells grow faint, then still their chime;
Where once the screens cast forth their fevered light,
Now shadows linger, watchful, lost in time.

The boastful cries of progress fill no more,
The eager throngs have wandered from the gate;
Where mighty claims resounded loud before,
Now silence reigns, and markets watch, sedate.

No grand design, no promised mind appears,
No PhD on call, no wisdom found;
But lists half-broken, maps dissolved in jeers,
A monument of error on the ground.

Here lie the hopes of Altman’s gilded tongue,
That spoke of dawns the silicon would raise;
The prophets’ dreams, on corporate towers hung,
Are ashes now beneath investor gaze.

The proud proclaimed that genius dwelt in code,
That scaling up would crown them kings of thought;
Yet empty proved the wide and costly road,
And trillions vanish chasing what is naught.

How fleeting all the visions money buys,
How soon the gilded speech turns thin and frail;
The shining graphs that sought to pierce the skies,
Now tell a tale of vanity and fail.

Nor wealth, nor might of Nvidia’s hand,
Nor echoes of the dot-com age reborn,
Could bid this fragile kingdom ever stand,
When truth revealed its promises forsworn.

Perhaps within these broken halls of dream,
A humbler craft, less burdened by deceit,
May rise — not crowned with gold, nor hailed supreme,
But measured, modest, human, and discreet.

Yet let us pause, and on the ruin dwell,
The tale of folly carved on every line;
The bubble bursts — a knell, a solemn knell,
To warn that time makes mock of all design.

The Boy Who Went Down

 The Boy Who Went Down

In the town of Segarcea, on a bright April day,
A very small boy went tumbling away.
Down, down, down in a well dark and deep,
Fifteen whole meters — a terrible leap!

The grown-ups all gathered, they tried and they tried,
With ladders and ropes and their tools at their side.
For eleven long hours, they huffed and they strained,
But that poor little toddler was still down, remained.

Then out from the crowd came a boy, just fourteen,
With courage much bigger than most ever seen.
“I’ll go!” shouted Cristian, brave as could be,
“I’ll bring back young Gabriel — just lower down me!”

So ropes they were fastened, a lamp on his head,
And carefully, slowly, they lowered his spread.
Headfirst he went sliding, the crowd held their breath,
For the shaft was so narrow, it felt close to death.

Then—hooray!—what a cheer! What a shout! What a sound!
Up popped young Cristian, safe and safe-bound.
And there in his arms, what a sight to behold,
Little Gabriel rescued, his hand gently rolled.

The people all clapped, and the bells they all rang,
And stories of heroes the whole country sang.
For courage and kindness can spring from the small,
And one daring boy had inspired them all.

So if you feel tiny, take heart and take heed,
A heart full of courage is big, big indeed.
For heroes aren’t giants from faraway lands—
They’re kids like young Cristian, with brave little hands.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9_iyCi0q7OY

Camry Dreams, Ferrari Myths

Camry Dreams, Ferrari Myths

The prophets spoke of silicon fire,

of engines of thought, climbing higher and higher.

From word-guessing games, a whisper grew loud,

GPT-3 stunned both the lab and the crowd.

Then came the fourth, a dazzling leap,

logic and code it could suddenly keep.

Hopes soared skyward, “the future is near—

five will be magic, the breakthrough is here.”

But five arrived quiet, refined not reborn,

a patchwork of models in unified form.

The Camry was polished, the trim lines were neat,

yet it would not transform to a Ferrari on the street.

Pattern, not reason, the critics now say,

a knight moves diagonal, then drifts the wrong way.

It mimics, it mirrors, with elegant tone,

but never quite builds a world of its own.

Valley believers once promised the end,

a dawn of machines we’d be forced to befriend.

But hype met its ceiling, the scaling law broke,

the messianic fervor dissolved into smoke.

Still—

in the cracks of the dream, small fires burn bright:

tools that assist, that shape and rewrite.

Not gods, not monsters, but clever machines,

threading through papers, and classrooms, and screens.

And maybe the realist, calm and clear-eyed,

is right when he says: the flood will subside.

No Skynet, no angels descending from code,

just steady invention, along a slow road.

The Ballad of the Sun King

The Ballad of the Sun King

It is an ancient courtier,
And he stoppeth one of three—
“By thy bright eye and noble mien,
I prithee listen unto me.

The tale I tell is wondrous grim,
Of Louis, King of France;
A god in form, a star in soul,
Who ruled through pomp and dance.

The Golden Prince

His limbs were wrought of marble stone,
His voice could shake the air;
He danced six hours ‘neath candle flame
And left no drop of sweat there.

His eyes were flames, his hair was night,
His stride could make floors ring;
A thousand courtiers fought to touch
The robe that clothed the King.

He spoke in tongues of every land,
He fenced with master’s grace;
Ambassadors in awe would weep
To gaze upon his face.

The Hidden Rot

But ah! beneath the velvet red,
The crown, the perfumed bloom,
A secret darkness took its hold—
A creeping, noisome doom.

At five-and-twenty, daily purged,
His bowels chained with pain;
Enemas and sugared masks
Could not the truth contain.

He washed but twice in all his years,
He claimed it weakened men;
And so the stench of sovereign flesh
Was hid with musk again.

The Tortured King

Then fissures burst, the ulcers spread,
The flesh began to weep;
The palace floors grew rank with death,
The courtiers could not sleep.

The surgeon came with silver blade,
No mercy, no reprieve;
They cut and burned the royal flesh
While Louis yet did breathe.

Three hours long he shrieked aloud,
The Sun King bathed in gore;
And though they drained the festering wound,
The rot would pour once more.

The Perfumed Palace

They filled the halls with roses fresh,
With sandalwood and myrrh;
They burned a thousand fragrant fires
To mask the royal slur.

But perfume could not staunch decay,
Nor velvet hide his girth;
The god of youth became a mass
Of pus and bloated earth.

His teeth were torn, his jaw was wrecked,
His nostrils dribbled wine;
The courtiers knelt with silken masks,
Pretending all was fine.

The Last Dusk

The gangrene blackened toe and thigh,
It climbed with searing breath;
The Sun King, lord of Europe vast,
Sat rotting into death.

Still he ruled with trembling hand,
Still issued his commands;
Till flesh gave way, and bone was bare,
And France slipped from his hands.

At last he whispered, broken low:
“Love not war as I—
For I, who once outshone the stars,
Now foul and ruined die.”

The Moral

O mark me well, ye sons of kings,
O mark me well, ye proud!
The crown may gleam, the court may sing,
The grave will shroud you loud.

For Louis, Sun of France, did fall—
A lesson dread and plain:
No pomp, nor gold, nor perfumed hall
Can conquer rot and pain.

The Troll Who Would Heal the World

The Troll Who Would Heal the World

In shadowed forums, under glowing thread,
A pompous troll lifts up their head.
They scrawl their truths in sharpened ink,
Then edit fast—before you blink.

Their posts proclaim: "I cure, I mend!
I only judge to help, my friend."
Yet every word drips spiteful flame,
While cloaked in virtue, all the same.

They sneer at fools, they mock the blind,
And claim enlightenment refined.
But when their venom draws a cry,
They shift the text, deny, deny.

A healer's robe they choose to wear,
While thorns protrude from every prayer.
Their mission shines—a saintly role,
Yet cracks betray the wounded soul.

So let them preach, revise, and scold,
A fragile mask of virtue bold.
For healing never takes its toll
From such a pompous, fickle troll.

The Power of Silence

The Power of Silence

In the buzzing hive of endless threads,
Where words like arrows fly,
A troll awaits with sharpened tongue,
To snare the passerby.

They hurl their sparks, their cruel refrain,
A fire they hope will spread,
But silence stands, a quiet shield,
Where noise cannot be fed.

No echo comes, no flame takes hold,
Their fury meets the void,
A storm that breaks on gentle seas,
Its venom soon destroyed.

For silence is a subtle blade,
It cuts without a sound,
And in the hush, the troll's loud roar
Falls lifeless to the ground.

So keep your peace, let stillness reign,
No battle need be won—
For silence speaks the final truth:
The war was never begun.

The Commuter’s Ballad

The Commuter’s Ballad

Four hours a day, the wheels would turn,
Iron rails and engines burn.
Seven long years, the timetables lied,
While his patience wore thin with each jolting ride.

A paperback shield, his daily disguise,
Pages devoured as the landscape flies.
And sometimes a can, harsh comfort he knew,
Special Brew fizz to dull the view.

Strikes in the morning, delays in the rain,
The curse of the lost ticket, all for the train.
Bosses demanded he prove his worth,
While home pulled him back to the hearth.

“Be earlier,” they begged, as ambitions grew tall,
He balanced the scales, yet could not please all.
A soldier of steel tracks, bound to the fight,
Haunted by day, softened by night.

Yet love found its way through paper and pen,
Letters exchanged, again and again.
A long-distance promise, ink-sealed and true,
A whisper of hope on each carriage he knew.

So count all the hours, the rumble, the sway,
The man on the train still lives in the grey.
But hidden within the monotony’s strife,
Were words and a woman who shaped him a life.

The Moon-Hoax Hullabaloo

 

Oh, up in the sky where the Moonity-Moon glows,
In a silvery shimmer where nobody goes,
They said that we landed, those spacey folks did,
With rockets and suits and a helmet-flipped lid!
But Bart Sibrel, that fellow, with a wink and a frown,
Said, “Hold on, you star-dreamers, let’s slow this all down!”

In a Whirly-Whiz town called Truthity-Ville,
Lived Bart with his questions and curious thrill.
He looked at the pictures, the flags, and the dust,
And said, “Something’s fishy, I don’t give my trust!”
Did they hop on the Moon with a bounce and a zoom?
Or was it a stage with a big fakey-boom?

“Oh, the Moonity-Moon!” cried old Bart with a shout,
“They say that we went there, but I have my doubt!
The shadows are wonky, the starlight’s not there,
The flag waves like laundry in breezy old air!
Was it filmed in a room with a sneaky-dee trick?
A movie-set Moon with a clickety-click?”

The Spacey-Space Men in their shiny white suits,
Said, “Bart, you’re a grump with your hootity-toots!
We flew to the Moon, oh, we landed, we swear!
We bounced and we danced in the lunar-y air!”
But Bart shook his head with a giggle and grin,
“I’ll keep asking questions, let the truthity begin!”

In a Zoomity-Zoom ship, they said they did soar,
To the Moonity-Moon, oh, they swore and they swore!
But Bart with his magnifying glassity-glass,
Said, “Look at this film, it’s as fake as the grass!
The stars should be twinkling, the shadows should fall,
But this looks like a stage in a studio hall!”

Now the people of Earth, in a huff and a puff,
Said, “Bart, that’s enough of your doubty-old stuff!
We believe in the Moon, in the landings, the leaps,
In the astronauts brave and their spacey-dee feats!”
But Bart just kept giggling, with a wink and a nod,
“I’ll keep poking and prodding, though you think I’m odd!”

So if you’re in Truthity-Ville, by the Moonity’s glow,
And you wonder what’s real and what’s only a show,
Take a peek with old Bart, with his questions galore,
He’ll make you think twice, maybe thrice, maybe more!
For the Moonity-Moon holds its secrets, oh my,
And Bart Sibrel’s chasing the truth in the sky!

The Iron Law of Bureaucracy

 

The Iron Law of Bureaucracy

In an office quite stuffy, with memos galore,
Where papers pile high from the ceiling to floor,
There lived a grand Bureau, with desks in a row,
Where progress was promised—but ever so slow!

Now Jerry Pournelle, a wise, watchful chap,
Observed how it worked and then drew us a map:
He said, “Every group—be it business or school—
Will follow one Iron, unbreakable rule.”

For those who do work, who deliver and strive,
Will soon be outnumbered by drones who survive.
The drones love the forms, and the stamps, and the files,
The policies, processes, meetings, and trials.

They gather in councils, committees, and boards,
To shuffle the papers and polish the cords.
They talk and they chatter, they nod and they clap—
But none of it helps to fix holes in the map!

And soon the true workers, the doers, the bold,
Are drowned in the rules and the memos of old.
The Bureau protects the Bureau, you see,
And not the great work of delivery!

So if you should wander through cubicles gray,
Remember the Law in its Seussian way:
The more that they manage, the less that gets done—
Till work serves the Bureau, and not anyone!

The Bubble of Iron Thought

 The Bubble of Iron Thought

Upon the stage of trade a dream was set,
That half of mortal toil would melt away,
By engines wrought of code and iron thought,
Exponential in their climb to rule.

The merchants cried: Invest! for gold shall flow!
And princes of the market raised their hands,
Proclaiming future kingdoms built on sand,
While widows spent their mite on fleeting shade.

Yet time, that patient judge of mortal schemes,
Revealed the cruel jest: returns grew dim,
Each labor saved was swallowed by a snare,
As progress waned, a taper losing flame.

What once did promise wings to lift mankind
Now bore but leaden chains of false belief;
The halls of venture echoed hollow songs,
And ruined lords bewailed their vanished gains.

O folly, dressed in algorithms’ guise!
Thou art a bubble, fragile as the dawn,
And when thou burst, the dust of shattered hopes
Did choke the very air of human kind.

So mark this tale: that hubris is a stage,
Where men, in worship of mechanic gods,
Forget the pace of nature’s measured hand,
And write their ruin in their own despair.

The Pretender’s Reign

The Pretender’s Reign

They crowned him king, for he spoke like thunder,
Promising gold and a realm torn asunder
From all its ills—yet the roar they’d hear
Was a hollow bray to tickle the ear.

His mane was stitched, his coat was dyed,
His wisdom borrowed, his courage lied;
But the people cheered, for the tale was sweet,
And truth is dull when lies taste neat.

He built his throne on sand and straw,
Wrapped every flaw in pomp and law;
Till time, that patient, prying hand,
Pulled seams apart across the land.

And there he stood, no lion’s grace,
Just long ears flapping in disgrace;
A lesson carved for all who see:
Not all who rule are what they seem to be.

In the Shadow of Faith: A Poem

 In the Shadow of Faith: A Poem

In a home where the Latin Mass still reigned,
Where denim and doubt were both disdained,
A father preached of sin and doom,
Of Mary's reign and Satan's gloom.

He dreamt of Rome in ancient guise,
Saw modern Church through wary eyes.
With nine young mouths and barely bread,
He chased salvation, faith ahead.

From California's sun and dust,
To Portugal in hope and trust,
He dragged his flock through fear and fire,
Fueled by a holy, strange desire.

They wore long skirts, obeyed strict rules,
No movies, dances, worldly schools.
Each meal a prayer, each word a creed,
Each doubt a thorn, each thought a need.

But children grow and questions bloom,
In corners of a crowded room.
Veronica, with pen in hand,
Sought light where she could barely stand.

A memoir told with grace and sting,
Of love that clutched with clipped-back wing.
Of faith unbending, fierce, and raw,
Of breaking free from holy law.

Yet through the grief, she honors still
The man who bent to God his will.
For in the wreckage of belief,
There shines a quiet, aching grief.

Sonnet to the Inevitability of Nazi Comparisons

 Sonnet to the Inevitability of Nazi Comparisons

When reason’s tide doth grace our humble thread,
And gentle wit with measured voice is laid,
Yet lo, some knave, with logic all but dead,
Doth call his foe a tyrant, unafraid.

“Thou art as Hitler!”—thus the gauntlet thrown,
A foolish crown placed on a petty spat;
As if in digital courts ’tis widely known,
The victor’s found by memes and GIFs and chat.

O cursed fate, that every quarrel’s course
Must drift toward tanks and goose-steps in the rain,
Where history’s darkest, most malignant force
Is wielded for a parking space or bane.

So speak, ye jesters of the online hall—
For all are Hitler, if one scrolls at all.

London

 London

Come friendly drones and drop your load
On every glass-and-steel abode;
Drop on the banks, the hedge fund floors,
The coffee chains with endless stores.

Let rain of fire cleanse Oxford Street,
Where buskers shout and preachers bleat;
Where queues for bubble tea grow long,
And TikTok teens all sing the song.

Bring ruin to the City’s core,
Where suited wolves forever score;
To tower blocks that scrape the skies
And block the Thames from weary eyes.

Spare not the lofts in Shoreditch Lane,
The artisan, bespoke, inane;
Nor Chelsea’s gates of iron and glass,
Where silent chauffeurs let them pass.

Yes, level all from west to east,
From Peckham rye to Shoreditch feast;
Till pigeons nest in Parl'ment’s crown—
Then, maybe, we can call it town.

The March to Inevitability

The March to Inevitability

In forums vast where words collide,
Where reason tries, yet trolls abide,
A thread begins with calm intent—
Debate on things most eloquent.

But slowly flames begin to rise,
With snark and subtle verbal knives,
Till history’s shadow takes the floor,
A specter we all have seen before.

And lo! It comes, both swift and grim,
A name invoked on impulse, whim,
Comparisons drawn, unjust or raw—
The prophecy fulfilled: Godwin’s Law.

So heed this truth, you keyboard knights,
When sparring deep in pixel fights:
All roads in rage, though winding far,
Lead straight to where the Nazis are.

A Mournful Ode in the Manner of Thomas Gray

A Mournful Ode in the Manner of Thomas Gray

On the Peculiar Life of One Who Dreamed of Light

Beneath the yew where shadows crowd the sod,
A humble man lies mute, unknown to fame;
No laurel wreath, no scholar’s learned nod
Adorns the stone that bears his modest name.

Yet mark his tale, ye proud of lofty birth,
Whose sires are writ in annals brazen-bound:
He came of stock from Belgia’s troubled earth,
And bore the shame of accents soft in sound.

The youngest sprout in dame’s imperious shade,
Where Mother's voice, a gale that ne’er grew still,
With tales inflated, proud and overweighed,
Bent his green soul to others' louder will.

She spoke of knights and blood from Charlemagne,
Though brewers lined the tree from whence he came;
He, bashful, watched and feared to stake a claim
On dreams too bold, or gifts too great to name.

His consort, saintly, once of Protestant fire,
Embraced the incense, beads, and Latin tongue;
For truth she burned, with beauty did aspire,
And in the ancient Mass her spirit sung.

Though oft she wept with fevered brow and pain,
Her days in patience lit his darker skies;
Her faith the lamp, her goodness still remained
Though doctors passed, and hope itself grew shy.

Meanwhile he toiled in silence with a scheme—
A theory strange, to summon force from naught;
To draw from ether man’s electric dream,
And grant the globe the fire Prometheus sought.

He scribbled late by candle’s dying breath,
While round him danced the children of his line;
A hundred-fifty bore his blood till death—
A tree prodigious in its bold design.

But still he shrank from halls of learned pride,
And stammered low of all his high pursuits;
For in his heart, some chiding voice would chide
That worth from Belgian roots not oft takes fruits.

Ah! who shall sing the might of meek despair,
The light that burns in souls the world denies?
Let not the grave such secret virtues snare,
Nor genius, cloaked in doubt, unhonoured lie.

The village bell tolls slow its evening chime,
The blackbird calls, the harvest moon ascends;
Here rests a man unlauded in his time,
Yet in God's truth and beauty made amends.

The Till on the Hill

The Till on the Hill

I once saw a till,
On a hill, still and chill,
It went beepity-bop!
And it never would stop,
For it liked to count things —
Oh, it counted a lot!It counted the beans,
It counted the jeans,
It counted green apples,
And jars full of greens!It took every pound,
Made a clickety sound,
Then zip! went the slip,
And your change came around.With buttons all bright,
And a screen full of light,
It knew every price —
Oh, it got them all right!So if you should wander
Through Shop Street one day,
And hear beepity-bops
From the tills on display,
 Just tip your big hat,
 Give a wave, if you will…
 For you’ve met the grand master —
 The EPOS-y till!

The Curious Journey of Sir Puffleton at the Tridentine Mass

Sir Puffleton Blithe took a very long path,
To attend the old Mass in its Latin-clad wrath,
Where candles stood tall and the incense did swing,
And the choir of cherubim softly would sing.

He knelt on the stone with his hat in his hand,
While the Priest faced the East as tradition had planned,
With vestments of gold and a lace alb so fair,
And the Gospel was sung on the breath of the air.

"O Dominus vobiscum!" rang through the nave,
And Sir Puffleton whispered the prayers he gave,
While the bell gave a ding! and the Sanctus took flight,
And Heaven seemed nearer than morning or night.

Then out they all went, with a bow and a smile,
For the Mass in that manner had lasted awhile,
And Sir Puffleton sighed, "It was worth every mile—
For the old ways are splendid, and wholly worthwhile."

The Streisand Effect

The Streisand Effect

In whispers low behind closed doors,
A secret stirred on distant shores.
A photograph, so plain, benign—
Until she cried, "That image's mine!"

She sought the law, she drew her sword,
To hush the tide with court's accord.
But silence, once imposed with might,
Awoke a storm she could not fight.

For what was small, obscure, unseen,
Now bloomed upon the global screen.
A spark she tried so hard to quell
Now blazed across the citadel.

The world leaned in with prying eyes,
Enticed by veils and legal cries.
What once was buried, lost in mist,
Was now atop the viral list.

Thus born was irony's cruel twist—
Suppress a thought, it will persist.
The louder one declares "Forget!",
The louder echoes the Internet.

So tread with care when truth you chase,
And let not fear distort your face.
For in this age, to hide a thread,
Is oft to stitch it bold in red.