Ode to the Blogosphere
The MSM exudes a certain whiff
Which wafts upon a nostril unaware.
With all the grace of rotting corpses stiff,
Distracting me from all that's good and fair.
The smell of death is strong, but stronger yet,
A newer springtime sprouts from fertile soil.
(New life is hard to stop when all you get
Is fresh manure, fruit of fruitless toil.)
And so upon the grass I plant my feet,
My vow of online silence now fulfilled.
On my return, this field is now replete
With urban wisdom sprung from folly spilled.
And yet within the sod there are new weeds.
One cannot stop the spread of foul seeds.