Magic 8-Ball

I grasped the Magic 8-Ball

And asked it if I should

Pen a verse about its charms

It told me, “Outlook good”

So here is a rhyme, a poem

Of assured obscurity

About that sooth-saying oracle

From Milton Bradley

I started asking questions

And it put on a show

Me: Will I hit the lottery?

It: My reply is no.

So I asked it other questions

Me, speculating if I ever could

Grow back my head of golden hair

And it said, “Outlook good”

Now according to the 8-Ball

I will not hit the lottery

But as consolation my hair grows back

Not too shabby, mon ami

So I thought I’d bump it up a notch

I’d thrown softballs the whole time

Well now I’d throw some curve balls too

The answers should be sublime

"Magic 8-Ball, why is there suffering

And justice disavowed

Why hatred, greed, & homelessness?"

It said it, “Could not answer now”

Now the manufactures warranty

Won’t cover such misuse

I must confine to “Yes” or “No”

Not questions so obtuse

So I put the 8-Ball on the self

The oracle does not care

I guess I’ll just keep searching

For answers found elsewhere