Leave It To A Beaver

Considering the gorse of its thorny prickle with its spiny leaves. That is enough of Botany with a penny for naught given my proclivities for teas leaves and not weeds. For what is a poem without a raven or a can of chicken soup to while away the pickle I am in, with root rot and not my ABCs. Watching Mr. Rogers neighborhood wearing shoes without strings. Porn fed by the reality show, Leave It To A Beaver. Racing the dark in my giddy-up, thinking I am Pancho and Lefty. A "has been" of a poet, now a hat pin in my goiter. But considering the audience, I am a genius wilting in the fix I am in. Like Tom Sawyer, trading a mouse for comment and whinny for your rocking horse. But the oats are in the meal and my words stand alone. "There are fools in them thar hills and catcher's net on the other end."