So, somebody at Wells Fargo Bank in San Francisco found AToB by googling a poem using the words pants spoons and powerade. Now, unfortunately I've never written a poem using those three words so his search was in vain. Today's poem will fix that egregious error. From henceforth, the internet will contain a poem using the words pants, spoons, and powerade.
All Things to All People
Inspired by a true story
A door hangs open
in a musty room full of fear.
Pants lie strewn across the floor
like giant, deflated inflatable flailing-arm waving guy balloons.
And in the center of this melange
amidst the rubble and the spite
a group of three spoons stands erect
surveying their kingdom of trash,
their domain of some crazy garbage.
What the hell is going on?
says Spoon 1 to spoons 2 and 3.
What happened to our joy? Our life? Our land?
Spoon 3 points his fingers at spoon 2 and says
It was he, my dear, that ruined it all.
He that poisoned our hearts and drank up
all our Powerade. We have no Powerade any more.
Our wells have run dry. Our blue gold is gone.
Peak Powerade has come,
and now has gone.
And now spoon 2 must protest
Wait, s/he says
We haven't used it all.
Here, under the pants, and trash and fire and hate
we can find some more.
We can mine some more.
We can try some more.
Here is the hope for our future,
the hope for our illustrious race of spoons.
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