Poetry and Fred said... you're burnt!

Fred's Dis-orientation

Days of gray and cold steel bars
Give way to fiction and the stars

Watching the hours and minutes pass by
With HG Wells, Time's limit is the sky

Theology and philosophy thought thru and thru
Castenada, Hubbard and Nietzsche, too.

Crime is reflected and memories of hell
This is a place that no one should dwell

Education comes next right there on the shelf
This is the place to better yourself

Pictures of birds, horses and snakes
A little imagination is all that it takes

Wheatgrass and sweetgrass, pills and drinks the same
This is the section if you are feeling lame

You're feeling better, now its time for your car
With the right type of book help isn't that far

Your yard needs sprucing and your garden as well
So follow these books and no one can tell

Beading and sewing and carving on wood
Using these projects your art will look good

If music's your thing, and you play the guitar
Learn what its like to be a star

Running and jumping and throwing a ball
The people in this section average 7 feet tall.

Everything written is fine and dandy
But once with Shakespeare, it's a treat of ear candy

Travel the world from Peru to Rome
You can do it all without leaving home.

Remember the battles both won and lost
From Iraq's dry desert to Siberia's permafrost.

You can now meet some people and make a friend
But rest assured this is not the end.

We have everything that you could need
Behind these walls, if you can read

If we don't have it just ask for some more
And before you know it, it comes thru the door.

Fred's here to help you with things he's been learn't
But, if you cop and attitude: Mister, you're burnt.



Recycled Non-seller

Deep in the bowels of the dark, dark tomb
Down where it's warm and quiet as a womb.

There sits a lonely, dusty row of books,
Anxious for any wide and eager-eyed looks.

They wait for open and yearning minds
Patiently waiting for us to touch their spines.

The glues is hard and the paper brittle,
Each has been used so very little.

With a yellow edge and faded jacket,
They urgently await the sounds of a racket.

The machine winds up to raise and awful din,
And gently all of the books are raise to the rim.

As the books slide down the belt
Their nervousness is felt.

Each wishes that it had been made into a bicycle
Sliding along waiting the chance to recycle

A sign hanging over the entrance maw
Reads in bloodly letters the following law:

A best seller or even a readable book you weren't
One last try, use it or "You're Burnt!"


Island Prisoner's Library (only flights of fancy allowed)

They come with thoughts of finding some escape
From drudgery, and boredom, and despair;
They take but one short hour to meditate
Upon the storied volumes offered there;

Erotica and fantasy they crave,
and bibs, and ILL's, and copying requests;
The clamor of their voices begs to save
Them -- Hear them, throned Nestors, make bequest

From your rich store of knowledge, gift them all
With hist'ry, science, bios, and the arts;
From dusty bays of much-loved mem'ry pull
Some arcane lofty tomes to ease their hearts.

And if, by then, it's clear they've nothing learnt,
They may yet hear the great Nimrod say, "You're burnt!"