The Zen of zed, I thought, would make a good poem.
I’d describe lazy, hazy dayz,
Dozing cozily to the buzz of the bees,
As a breeze (a zephyr!) wafted through the trees.
But zoinks! Jazzy words began to zip through my head.
Snazzy words like
Zap! Zinger! Zig-zag!
And I realized this poem was something else, after all.
Maybe instead of describing the heat of the day,
I’d move to the cool cocktail hour.
Think of frozen cubes
That make drinks fizz,
Part of the biz of booze
(never just one, but with dozens of couzins);
Left alone too long, they fuze together
In a mizerable maze in the freezer.
… And now, zowie, we’re done.
Party’s over; there’s no more; zero, zilch, zip.
(Jeeze, just when I was having so much fun with my
zany zest for zee’s.)