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!
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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!
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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!”
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More Poems from Max, compiled by his daughter