A Sonnet of the Short-Lived Battle Between the Word Sublime and He of Fair Hair

A poet once touched on a word Sublime;
It didn't quite enjoy the poet's touch.
It ate the poet, and leaving trail-o'-slime,
Hid in the woods, eating lost kids and such.
The local townsfolk told the village mayor,
"You must rouse it from the Hinterwilds,
Maybe hire He of the Fair Hair,
For we are tirin' out, makin' more childs."
So the Mayor dispatched He of Fair Hair,
A knight (and part-time player of jazz guitar,)
Who found its lair, and called out, "Pizza's Here!";
The Word Sublime out of him beat the tar
     Now on the blood of children it still sips,
     And to all jazz musicians, gives fat lips.

To Die For

Icosahedron,
Providing random chance,
Invokes joy or tears.

What a Rush

Today's Tom Sawyer
Will crush you up and smoke you--
He gets high on you.

Summer

With the temp’ratures rising so high,
I cooked eggs on the sidewalk—but why?
‘Cause my cranial pate,
Like the eggs on my plate, 
Received both a good scramble and fry.

Triffids

I attempted to enter my yard;
But I found that the way had been barred!
With my hoe, I attacked--
Yea, I hammered and hacked!
Unlike me though, the weeds were un-scarred.

Pastries

We had donuts tonight for a treat!
It's not something that we often eat.
For you'll gobble 'em quick
'Til your middle's quite thick,
Cuz that weight sure don't go to your feet!

Rush Hour

The traffic has started to surge,
Which is making it harder to merge.
Then an over-sized truck
In your lane leaves you stuck,
With a single unspeakable urge.