Poems by Max Knuth  

   Return to the Control Page  


Here are some poems by the poet laureate of the Control Division, Maxwell L. Knuth. Thank you Dale Keiser for sending these to me.


Berta and Dale went to coffee today
They sat all alone for a brief tetete
‘Twas very platonic of that there’s no doubt
But heaven help Dale if his wife should find out!


 If someone has a reason to make a Dutch boat sink
It really is no problem and is simpler than you think.
You do not need explosives to assure that it won’t float
Just put it in some water that is deeper than the boat!


The fate of the world is in the balance
We stand on the knife edge of doom
Great scientists use all their power to wipe out
mankind with one boom.

But still there is one possibility
To save us from rack and from ruin
It’s based on the digestibility
Of the simple fruit known as the prune.


If we take all the men of great power
And force feed them both day and night
At the rate of 6 prunes every hour
They’ll be kept too darn busy to fight!


There is nothing quite a regal
As a plastic Polish eagle
Standing poised within a pachysandra bed.


Looking very sage and wise
With its bulging plastic eyes
And a melting glob of snow upon its head.


It may shock you at first meeting
With its cold and staring greeting
But you find that as time passes you’ll agree


When you look in its direction
You will feel a warm affection
But not near as warm as felt by AJT!


How come the pink flamingos?
I asked AJT one day.
I knew within a moment
It was not the thing to say
But he answered me abruptly
In a voice both curt and crass

Those things aren’t pink flamingos

They are Cushman Albatrosses.


The city of Milwaukee has a rather novel plan
To profit or break even on the waste products of man
For flowing ‘neath the city every day and every night
Is a source for fertilizer that they call Malorganite.
The slurry goes to open pits and though it don’t smell great


They leave it simmer in the sun and thus evaporate
Until the liquid all is gone and residues can harden
Then grind and bag and sell it to put on the family garden.
And so as some small dropping goes a swirling down the drain
It thinks within its fecal soul, “I’ll pass this way again!”

More Poems from Max, compiled by his daughter


   Return to the Control Page