The flow of information through our mailbox was immense.
I’m sure it gave the postman shoulder problems quite intense.
When National Geographic and Good Housekeeping arrived
the chores went out the window and indolence did thrive.
The Saturday Ev’ning Post and Mad Magazine were like old chums;
as homely and as comforting as fresh made cracker crumbs.
And catalogues abounded when the snow on sidewalk meant
twould be six months afore we’d see again the cracked cement.
Now, like shards from Babylon, the magazines are rare
that come by postal carrier into my own sweet lair.
I’m glad to hear that Yankee’s still in bizness; after all,
there is no better place for needhams and the blaze of Fall.
I put a solar power panel on my roof one day,
But my electric company said that it could not stay.
“We have to buy the excess you produce” they said to me,
“and that can lead to overloads and great uncertainty.”
I decided then and there that I’d go off the grid;
Who WERE those yahoos anyway to think they could forbid?
I ran my fridge and tv set, got hot water and lights
From my solar panels (tho it petered out at nights).
But very soon the FBI came knocking at my door;
They said twas un-American that the grid I should ignore.
Utilities paid taxes (and paid lobbyists) for real,
And if I didn’t get back on I’d go to the bastille.
So now I’m paying ‘lectric bills again, under duress;
It seems that ev’ry month a few more dollars they assess.
But someday soon the worm will turn, and their goldang cloud nine
Will all be blown away when I install a wind turbine!
from an article in the New York Times
Far away in Nordic lands the Knausgaard lops along;
Enveloped in a fog of smoke, he sings his evening song:
“My mother was an ice berg and my father was a crag,
I’ve lost my mobiltelefon; my hair looks like brown shag.”
Librarians in Oslo say the Knausgaard is a troll;
He turns the yulekake into flaccid jelly roll.
He sucks the marrow from the bones of words in novels many –
But if you ask him what’s the point, he’ll roar “There isn’t any!”
Beware the Knausgaard’s books and looks and introspective bile;
He traps unwary readers like they’re going out of style.
So say your prayers and tell your beads and look under the bed;
If you spot a beach ball you have found his swelling head!
Based on Knausgaard’s article in the New York Times Magazine
Growing up benighted in a Norskie neighborhood,
I never knew that matzo tasted plain but very good.
We didn’t have a neighbor with mezuzot on their doors;
No one wore a yarmulke or shopped at kosher stores.
But when I left my little hytte, upon the world to snoop,
I discovered wonders such as matzo balls in soup.
Gefilte fish I sampled and the latke I adored,
And so I learned that noshing is its tasty own reward.
I still am eating matzo; I enjoy it with sardines,
Or spread some leverpostei on it with fresh salad greens.
I may get indigestion, but you cannot indict me
For prejudice when I am on a gourmandizing spree.
Because a Minnesota judge has fined aloof Norway
A couple thousand dollars, I think war is on its way –
You can’t affront the Norskies and expect a mild reply;
For they believe the Bible – they will pluck an eye for eye!
The battle will be awful, full of chaos and remorse.
Those Vikings will defile our famous Les Bolstad Golf Course.
(And don’t expect the Feds to get involved in any way;
“Settle it among yourselves” is all they’ll have to say.)
The husmor will attack with lefse grills and lingonberries;
Dayton will respond with a move to Buenos Aires.
We’ll call out the militia, but since most of them are soft
They’ll be taken prisoner – to work upon a croft.
And the coup de grace will be delivered by real trolls
That will snap us all in half as easy as ski poles.
And then in our state capital Hyperboreans will sit
Where they will oppress us with a tax on aquavit.