#691: WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THERE'S NOT ENOUGH GOING IN
Today the word is bitumen,
of which there is a lot.
For proof, look out your window
at that blacktop parking lot.
Mining based extraction
is a boring subject, yes,
but it's gritty and it's slimy;
it dares a porn trope to a test.
It's a stretch, though, and I've nothing.
The sand is like a beach?
The conveyor belt's a swimsuit
getting sand caught in the breech?
Or the oily sand's a pussy
and the machine's another's hand
and the more it roves and wanders
the oilier the land?
This brings to mind a thought or two
about this earth that we do shape.
We take everything we want to;
it's a veritable rape.
Oh, it's just too tiresome
working this metaphor I seek.
My meter goes from six to eight.
It's forced and sad and weak.
What brought this on, you wonder?
A google search, of course.
I yearned to know of bitumen,
but my mind's dirty, low, and coarse.
So, this is where I've brought you,
an unsatisfying end.
You've learned nearly naught of bitumen
nor found porn aptly rend.
I am sorry for this time I stole.
I wish that it weren't so.
There's been no education
and no sex, not one yabbo.
But bitumen's important.
Please take that fact to heart.
It kept Phoenician ships afloat
Even if your sands it did not part.
Oh, but wait, I've found a moral
to this long-winded monologue:
Just because your sands are oily
you've not okayed more than a snog.
The earth cannot consent
to the machines that mine her ground,
But we can fight the patriarchy
Until our freedom's won and sound.
So in the end the bitumen
was a decent little start.
I hope you've found some worthwhile bit
to take when you depart.
(This one's for triskaidekaphobes
who need not fear thirteen verses.
This one is the fourteenth
to avoid the evil curses.)