Ahhhh, spring. What feral mind doesn’t get spontaneously poetic at this time of year? I just took a quick stroll about campus, picking flowers, skipping, humming a haunting, flippant madrigal, and swooshing my long, dirty peasant skirt made of an uncomfortable fabric, thinking these Thoreauesque thoughts:
PEOPLE ARE LIKE DANDELIONS
They come up lovely and cheery, dotting the landscape with their merry faces, tra-la.
Brightening the surroundings with their sunny laughter and gaiety, ho-ho.
Bobbing brightly in the sunlight, for all to see, tweedle-dee.
Then, at some point, something traumatic happens, and their hair goes white, ho-hum.
Starts falling out in clumps, scattered to the 4 winds, oh-no.
Shiver, bald, spent and tired, awaiting a falling footstep that will put them out of their misery, boo-hoo.
Reveling in spite, cherishing the thought that their spawn might cause someone a sneeze, ha-ha.
Or nestle under someone’s eyelid, blink-blink.
And lest we forget, dandelions are, in fact, weeds, hoo-boy.
Like people — you just can’t kill them all off no matter how hard you try, boom-splat.
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