It is Your day, see
But I'm stir crazy
And somewhat hazy
On what is lazy. 

Ah Lord, that I should pardon see
And higher than the angels be,
Forgiven through eternity,
I wonder, struck with awe.

The angels see Your righteous face
And marvel at the perfect grace
You lavish on poor Adam's race,
While I am dark with flaw.

Yet, for the treason of the Fall
And centuries of sin withal,
Still Adam has the higher call.
What paradox of love!

Predestine, call, and justify
The lost for whom You chose to die;
Let men their Ransom glorify
Eternally above! 

I hope that Matthew's satisfied.
I've posted for an hour.
I've done my best--I've really tried,
With all that's in my power. 

A yawn, a sniffle, or a snort
As loud as these I'm hearing
Is either the self-conscious sort
Or proof of rotten rearing. 

That sneeze was perfect Corley:
Attention-grabbing noise,
Disguised so very poorly,
Straight from the Book of Ploys.
 

The girl across the way,
Her Power Mac all glistening,
Sure has a lot to say
When nobody is listening. 

"Hey, sometimes toast gets burned.
You learn to live with it."
"But see how black it turned?
I may just have a fit!" 

Sara Groves's new CD is due the twenty-third.
I will buy it. We will see if it's the best I've heard.
Andrew Peterson is working on some Christmas songs.
I will buy them. A.V.'s iPod's where A.P. belongs.
Nickel Creek has been recording; I will buy them too.
(And, if offered, I would marry Sara W.) 

I did not wear a belt today,
As I have just discovered.
Good thing large bottoms help pants stay
Hitched up. My *** is covered. 

Ry Man is the wryest Ry that you will ever meet:
Writing wryly, Ry's a guy that rightly can't be beat! 

Hey Mr. Ed and Bethany,
Your homepage still is bare.
I'll make it flashy for a fee:
A lock of Edward's hair. 

My mother lost her banner;
It was an accident.
I'm not much of a planner,
Or I'd know where it went. 

The homepage is redone.
I hope you like the look.
I'd have to say the fun
Was worth the time it took. 

A girl who I would marry writes me
In the line of duty.
The irony just kinda bites me;
Poo and fah on beauty. 

There's Mexicans behind me here,
Or something Latinish.
I speculate their greatest fear
Is eating tuna fish.

I know that sounds a bit absurd,
And that's because is.
Their greatest worry (so I've heard)
Is popping due to fizz. 

Greedy searching through a file,
Reading, lurching for a while()--
Eyeball slackers find their match;
Pros and hackers work in batch. 

My art instructor who is dead
While he was living wisely said
That sometimes it is best to shelf
A painting that has shelved itself. 

This poem doesn't write itself
As poems really should.
I think I'll put it on the shelf;
It isn't very good.