The Last Greenhouse

A man looked out at his black yard,

wanting to make good use of time:

I need to make one fine thing hard,

he thought, make it mine, only mine.

He stole a dozen doors of glass,

and built a house, and hung a sign

that said:  You shall not pass.

Then he bought some seeds, a pot

and dirt, and began to grow grass.

Each night he stood inside and thought —

watering grass is not too hard.

Soon the roots began to rot—

in the greenhouse, out in the yard.

The Laughing Fool (painter unknown), Sonnet #524

A man isn’t a man without being a fool,

At least that’s what the Fool learned in idiot school.

He began a money-infatuated ghoul

Chomping on the corpse of another greedy mule.

He soon grew morbidly obese on such fuel,

Then capered on to Fame’s self-deluding gruel

(Which turned half his tiny brains to stiffened stool).

All that power, women, and riches made him cruel

And he began to see all of life as a duel.

“Never lose, say ‘sorry,’ or forgive, and you’ll rule,”

He said, “Remember, your world is my private jewel.”

Then smiling men of stratagems made him their tool

And wiped his chin when he’d rather frequently drool.

Their hots for him have only just begun to cool.

My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here:

My Human Disguise.