Procrastination tastes like a casserole
of fridge-worn leftovers.
Pretend to ignore the mold;
What you can't see won't hurt much.
Add a bulging can of tomato sauce
and too much garlic.
I know you can't finish it.
Neither could I.
Tomorrow's lunch --
Leftover casserole.
I wrote that poem twenty years or so ago. Some things don't change much!
Too much stuff to do right now. Must get some leftovers off my plate before I do another REAL post. That next real one, however, will entail hula-hooping. And screaming electric guitar. And dancing Mennonites.
Till then!
6 comments:
:)
I LOVE this poem.
A seasoned procrastinator myself...
Missed you this weekend.
xo
I'll post a comment later.
And I procrastinate by ignoring the leftovers on my plate in favor of blogs about Elvis Sightings and my cute and adorable nieces!
-AuntieS/ARatK
Ya know, if you do ever get around to writing that post, I think it may wind up being the only post on the whole entire Interwebz that includes hula hoops, screaming electric guitar, and dancing Mennonites.
If'n I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I might suspect it was a tall tale....
Speaking of tall tales, she's not even from Texas - citizens of which are famous for expanding the facts of a story.
BRatK
ps
Passing on the antsup, JD.
JoyMama, that poem was kind of... gross.
I sent you and Joy a hug via Mama Mara!
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