Gulliver's cousin, Oliver, though not as widely known,
was equally adventurous, but lazy to the bone.
His armchair was his sailing-ship; his TV was his world;
with one click of a button, his daring life unfurled.
His closest friends were beer cans, collecting on the floor;
potato-chips were sea-shells; his carpet was the shore.
Unshaven as a sailor, he'd roll from chair to bed,
where sitcoms and the daily soaps would churn on in his head.
Sometimes he thought of Gulliver, that halfwit whose good-looks
and daring deeds were marvelled at and written down in books.
He'd scratch his chin and rub his eyes, he'd sigh and grunt and burp;
then raise a beer to Gulliver and down it in one slurp.
His TV-guide would show the way; he used it as a torch;
each Monday he would pick one up while yawning on his porch;
and, standing there, he'd look around and notice grass and gravel
instead of sea and shore and sand. He'd run inside to travel.