It’s not me—it’s the animals. I just take dictation.

Everyone has a reason for writing.
Mine is inconvenient.

This isn’t just poetry. It’s rebellion wrapped in rhyme, though you’d never know it from the racket in the background. I live in a menagerie of loud, insistent creatures who never stop offering opinions. I try to get away, but heck no. They follow me, squawking, quacking, croaking, you name it, and leave their speeches all over the floor.

First, I want you to laugh.
Then I want you to wonder why you’re laughing.
Later, in the dark, or walking the dog, I want the thought behind the joke to surface like a whisper: “What if that’s true?”

Well, at least that's the plan, but then the ram barges in with charts, the frog waves her reusable shopping bags, and it's chaos.

They don’t let me forget, and of course, they always want the last word. Even when I slam the door, the duck finds a crack, the penguin waddles through clutching his ledger of stock tips and schemes to monetize everything, and the cat proclaims yet another golden tariff. It’s less writing and more crowd control.

I believe satire can be a scalpel and also a key.
It can unsettle, unlock, and occasionally make you snort tea through your nose.

If this resonates, stay curious. Share the work. Pass it quietly under the table or loudly at the next dinner party. Either way, the menagerie won’t stop talking—and I’ll keep taking dictation.

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