April 22

Here's another old poem. This one is real, real bad. It's from my environmental righteous indignation period.

I was walking through Boston one day with a friend
When a great line of people walked by end to end
They were carrying signs with intent to rebel
With t-shirts to match, and on one my eye fell
And now with conviction I'll repeat if I may
That "laboratory animals never have a nice day"
My friend and I laughed and said it was true
Some people, it seems, have nothing better to do
But as they marched on, with direction and cause
I had a strange thought and here's what it was
Perhaps millions of creatures die season after season
And who's telling them that it's for a good reason
The answer it came, and was obvious to see
If a laboratory animal I was born to be
I sure would want someone marching for me

POLLUTION IS THE SOLUTION
from Esquire magazine, November 1992
I like the notion of oil on the ocean,
'cause it lubricates all of the waves.
When the water is slicker,
the tankers are quicker.
And look at the fuel that it saves.
I like burgers in styrofoam dishes,
Not fishes,
they take up good space in the sea.
Pollution is the solution,
Nature's annoying to me.

It's funny, I think, when things go extinct,
and they become yesterday's news.
When a species ceases, there's no more feces
for me to scrape off my shoes.
Well, some trees stay - I guess they're okay.
(The Prez says they're more toxic than cars.)
Pollution is the the only solution.
(Well, the easiest solution by far.)

I could spend hours in acid-rain showers,
and nuclear power is fun.
Hooray for pullutants !
'ecause they make us mutants,
and two heads are better than one !
Oh, I feel so attractive when I'm radioactive,
and I get my haircuts for free.
Pollution is the solution,
'cause if it's not, what else could be ?

When a strip mine stops, a town's livehood drops,
so the ax that I wield just cuts trees.
What's the answer, my friend ?
It blows in the wind,
which is thickening with CFCs.
We've always had trouble, since the first
critter's bubble popped the primordial slime.
Pollution, my son, is the solution,
and I know that you'll thank me in time.