A Matter Of Opinion

Some folks might say you’re “picky.” Well, it’s one such word they’d use …

and that depends entirely on who’s expressing views.

“Persnickety,” “particular,” “fastidious,” or such,

can all be used to say that, well, perhaps you care too much.

And though I see how “anal” might describe your special zeal,

this girl prefers “meticulous,” which lends a different feel.

Dear, I need words with loving connotations to give praise.

Assiduous intentness manifests in sexy ways,

and there’s no doubt about it. You get everything just right.

You’ve got the perfect technique down; you demonstrate each night.

So I don’t mind you taking time and wanting things just so,

(yes, even when it’s good enough, and I wish we could go).

I know that when it’s my turn, you will take your time the same,

and that gives rise to ecstasy that makes me call your name.

So, fussy and punctilious are compliments, indeed.

You’re vigilant, self-disciplined, and know just what I need.

You’re ever-s0-0bservant, and your work is so precise.

Bravissimo, sweet man! Your eye for detail’s really nice.

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His Favorite Things

Physics and math jokes and CPU towers,

open source software, and wizards with powers,

hobbits named Bilbo who chase after rings …

these are a few of his favorite things.

Linux and “Star Trek: The Next Generation,”

that rolly-polies are landbound crustaceans,

Lannisters fighting so they can be kings …

these are a few of his favorite things.

Cool 3-D printing, Joss Whedon, and Slashdot,

all pyrotechnics and building a flash pot,

knowing the reasons a pendulum swings …

these are a few of his favorite things.

When the code fails, when the part dings,

he is not deterred …

he simply revisits his favorite things,

and carries on like … a nerd!

Lyrics ©2015 Bridget Ayres

Set to Rodgers’ and Hammerstein’s “My Favorite Things”

What Was Sown

That brute, Igor Wilhelm, got older each day

while sitting alone on his porch,

his once-strapping shoulders, a wilting display,

his words finding no one to scorch.

Way back in the day, he directed his brood

by yelling and swinging a belt,

those caught in his path all subject to his mood.

He’d brand them each day with a welt.

One night he fell down and called Junior for aid,

which drained the last charge from his phone.

His grown son decided it’s time that he paid,

and left him, to languish, alone.

Sickly

I feel like my body is rotting,

disintegrating into ash.

My blood is congealing and clotting.

My bones, like old wood, are too brash.

My organs are screaming for mercy.

They deal with the onslaught each day.

My trunk and my limbs grow more pursy,

until I won’t tell what I weigh.

The poison, I take for its blessing,

with fear of the fallout to come,

in hopes I can change my own dressing,

and find a foothold, though I’m numb.

When daylight will reach me next morning,

all progress I’ve made is reset.

Then, new horrors come without warning.

What hope I had found, I forget.

Condemned to repeat the disaster,

I wake up again out of spite.

Until fate has won, I’m still master

and choose not to give up this fight.

Oh Printrbot, Oh Printrbot!

100_1685*

Now the future is here;

it’s inside of my house!

My inventions appear

with the click of a mouse.

Filament from above

feeds extruder below.

Great productions thereof

I can watch as they grow.

Appearing before me

the stuff of my dreams,

or what downloads for free …

it’s as cool as it seems!

Oh, sweet 3-D printer,

a maker you’ve made me.

You’ve done it this winter,

so I serenade thee!

(*mustache cookie cutter by dhulihan)

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