h a l f b a k e r yNice swing,
no follow-through.
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Though Grandma at rest pressed her chin to her chest,
She squinted and strained in a funk and depressed.
When she lay on the sheet or even the spread,
To see past her feet was too low for her head.
She asked me to help her, and help’s what I’m for.
I moved from the garage its
wide entrance door.
To the foot of the bed, one side of the room.
When pushing a button, it upward would zoom.
On the door I mounted her color TV,
That rose up above so she clearly could see.
‘Course then it was breezy and often quite cold,
And neighbors could stare in and Grandma behold.
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That wasn't a real wolf. It's just a story. |
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But then this isn't really a serious idea, it's "just" a poem. [+] |
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This would have so many applications, no reason the garage door couldn't be an interior door, is there? |
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no reason we couldn't shorten the title, is there? |
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We saw a house on Nantucket
That had a garage door a stuck it
It made no sense, and was questionable to us
But on the Isle what the fuck it? |
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A telly and sliding door garage |
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t'would be a perfect technological marriage. |
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The ratings go up while sweet lovers go down |
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in the backs of their horseless carriage |
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A tilting AND sliding door garage |
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[Two sources of visual mirage] |
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Would let out the cats, and may let in bats, |
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Grandma's poodle may be found in triage. |
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