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(Someone was explaining something to me, using metric measurements, as though it were a universally understood concept. Having no experience in a scientific or technological discipline, I realized I was not immediately grasping the import of what was being conveyed.

In jest, and ultimately in tragic truth, I said, “Don’t talk to me in metric; I’m
American.”

Ergo, the genesis of this otherwise pointless poem.)


METRIC AIN’T AMERICAN

Don’t talk to me of meters and things;
The metric system befuddles.
To an American, this stuff brings
Confusion, and all brains muddles.

We learn liters in the soft-drinks aisles,
Always next to quarts and ounces.
Otherwise, I succumb to its guiles;
Weight in kilos off me bounces.

Thank God for gallons, when gassing up;
We couldn’t calculate mileage.
We’d be like Omar, filling the cup,
At sea, in some long-gone-by age.

What’s with those “meters” that measure height?
“Something point something or other?”
Six feet plus puts you out of sight,
Tow’ring you over your brother.

We tried the metric thing – it seemed cute --
It was a bust from the get-go.
Metric and ‘Merican don’t compute;
Those wanting change heard only, “No!”

So, that’s the story of meters and things.
We could have gone with the planet.
At this late date, with arrows and slings,
We tell the world to “go CAN it” –

(Using sixteen-ounce cans,
Of course,
Or we’d have to ban it!)