Haiku Thursday

Greetings, my lovely bloglings!
Whether you're in the snowy (understatement) Northeast/Midwest or the sunny West Coast-whatever your weather, I sincerely hope that your travels leave you in one piece. Fortunately, for both Kylie and myself, we were given the day off from classes yesterday, and I'm not sure about my counterpart, but I most definitely took that time to catch up on schoolwork. If, by "schoolwork" you mean, "layed in bed with my beau whilst gorging ourselves on lemon sandwich creme cookies and dinosaur tales on the History Channel," then, my friend, you would be correct.

Today however, despite sidewalk, roadway and railings held captive by an unforgiving layer of ice, I was left to trudge my way to class. As much as this peeved me, my Survey of Spanish Literature class affords me an excellent opportunity to keep myself occupied through one of my nascent pasttimes-writing haikus! So, if you will allow me, I would love to share with you the eight, masterfully composed* poems by yours truly.
*please forgive the one haiku that does not follow the a, a, b rhyme scheme.

Dios Mio, Los Poemas Me Engañaron (My God, the Poems Deceived Me)
I'm in Spanish class.
Dreadful. I wish it would pass.
Quiero tacos.

Pining for Pachyderms (The Savannah Calls Your Name)
Elephants are neat.
Majestic, peaceful and sweet.
O, iv'ry: lay low.

Happy, Happy Hour-Hops and Barley, Come Again Soon
Wow! I need a drink.
And that really makes me think:
Beer! German: Pilsner.

Aviary Alphabets, Alliteration Alights
Birds! That when in flight
With their wings seem like a kite.
The sky! Dashed with M's.

Swine Management Begets Falsification of Thy Mysticism
Geez! Oh me, oh my!
You have told such a great lie.
Pigs really can fly.

Odd Palette Choices Beckon a Barrage of Self-Deprecating Programming
Great! Your purple shirt
It makes my eyes truly hurt.
One day I'll find pants.

Euphemisms of Sexual Gratification Arouse the Mind, Not the Loins
I dream of your taste
As always: fraught with much haste.
O, Lover! You, me.

Much More Lively Than Those Pulitzer-winners Are Those of Dead Poets
Walt Whitman, you say?
O Captain, my Captain, eh?
Bearded...and, long gone.

Thank you, and good night.
-Sara