Why I am not a poet.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin built there, of clay and wattles made;

Although I'm not entirely clear on what wattles are,

It just seems like a fun idea, me in a bee-loud glade

Nine bean rows will I have there –wait, what's with all the bees?

And nine rows seems like a lot, when three will probably do just fine

I mean, it's only me, am I right, and here a rhyming word would be "peas"

Although I'm not planting peas. Maybe some cilantro.

On second thought I'll go in a minute, in a little while I'll go to Innisfree

As soon as I do that other stuff I have to do.

I have to make some calls.


Two roads diverged in a yellow wood

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it got sort of dark and weird with this undergrowth

Then checked out the other, which seemed just as fair

And now that I thought about it, had perhaps the better claim

Because it was grassy and wanted wear

But as for that, why was no one walking down there?

Is there something I should know about?

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black

Oh I kept them both for another day

You would think these roads would be marked somehow!

Or there would be a map or whatever


Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me—

I screamed and ran away, because have you ever seen Death?

With the skull-head and giant scythe?

No thanks, Death, I'll walk

p.s. Wonderland here.