They Got It Wrong
Jun 7, 2011
The work week's always five days long,
the weekend's only two,
at some point someone got it wrong,
but here's what we should do:
Let's bid our current schemes adieu,
then cleverly contrive
to limit workdays each week: two,
and make our weekends: five!
Food Is A Many Splendored Thing
Jun 20, 2011
I like sausage, lettuce, waffles, bacon, burgers, jelly, fries
Snickers, pudding, truffles, jello, shredded wheat and apple pies.
Give me ginger ale and peanuts, Fritos, fritters, corn and peas
tacos, T-bones, muffins, pickles, and some jalapeno cheese.
I like Frosted Flakes and Cheetohs, mashed potatoes, celery, ham,
rigatoni, pigs-in-blankets, salsa, soda, rack-of-lamb.
Give me jellybeans, and oranges, buttered toast, a host of cakes,
toffee, Tootsie Rolls and coffee, chocolate chips, vanilla shakes.
I like pizza, perch and pretzels, brownies, Ritz and Nestle's Crunch,
cashews, canteloupe and Krackles, with a lovely liquid lunch.
Give me doughnuts, Ding Dongs, dumplings, with a double-dose of meat,
plus bananas, basted chicken, and a sweet Rice Krispy Treat.
I like noodles, streudels, stroganoff and sarsaparilla, too,
I like dingo, wombat, platypus and even kangaroo.
Give me Fresca, Squirt, or Pepsi with a can of Mountain Dew,
and my Transylvanian cookbook calls for several quarts of YOU!
The Bright Leukocyte
Nov 13, 2011
A leukocyte knew how to spell
and multiply numbers quite well
yet no one found out
because his small shout
was negative-one dec-i-bel.
Young Pup
Aug 15, 2010
There once was a four legged critter,
the brightest young pup in his litter,
he studied each night,
until he could write,
the thesis he's posted on Twitter.
Pentapod
Nov 8, 2011
There once was a five-leg'd giraffe
as was his five-leg'd other half
and though it was tricky
they knocked out a quicky
which yielded a pentapod calf!
Web Confession
Aug 28, 2011
Tarantulas Cherry and Jerry,
were feeling quite frisky and merry,
yet nothing transpired,
as Jerry got mired,
with thoughts that her legs were too hairy!
Consequences of a Duck-like Face
Apr 25, 2011
When I was born my lips were formed
exactly like a duck's.
Though doctors tried to chop and hide
with special nips and tucks,
the lips grew back, my voice: a quack...
quite drove my parents ill.
(To my disgrace, my duck-like face
is why they named me "Bill.")
Terminally Bored
Oct 28, 2011
There's nothing fulfilling, no zest nor intrigue,
I can't go to sleep yet I'm dead from fatigue.
My brain is inactive, both eyes are aglaze,
with some sort of sullen insomniac's haze.
There's shouting and pointing, emotions run high,
yet I'm catatonic, dull-witted and dry.
It's hopeless, despairing, there's naught in my gourd
I'm stiff as a statue and terminally bored.
Around me there's levity, humor and cheer,
while I'm claustrophobic, ill-tempered and queer,
It's something amorphous and hard to describe,
while others tip tumblers I will not imbibe,
for nothing could tickle my tonsils or tongue
I feel like a felon about to be hung...
who dwells on his drop, then the chop of the cord,
I'm fit as a fiddle, but terminally bored.
I've lived, and I've loved, had a ball, had a blast,
hit hedonist highs in my indiscreet past,
I've blown a king's ransom, on handsome young girls,
with luscious long locks or with cutely clipped curls.
I've traveled to Europe, to Asia, beyond...
I've vexed the young virgins, both sides of the pond.
In taverns with slattern young missies I've scored,
my noodle's now numb and I'm terminally bored.
So life is behind me and here's what I think:
that three or four decades went by in a blink,
I'm longing and pining, resigning my fate,
to live out my days with my longsuff'ring mate,
who chides me, derides me, in spite all I do,
my vices seem legion and virtues are few.
I try to remember I once was adored,
before she succumbed and turned terminally bored.
I Dream of Death
Jul 27, 2011
My dreams used to lift me to higher domains,
to sailing the oceans, or piloting planes,
but dreams were displaced with both anger and hate
by left-wing ideas that clap us in chains...
My dreams were like fictions to poke on my plate,
they never progressed from their infantile state,
my wish for ambition went long overdue,
my yearning for learning developed too late.
So now I'm a slave for a wage which I knew,
would barely support my embittered old shrew,
that harpy who harries me day after day,
whatever convinced me to tell her, "I do"?
Now some of you think that I'm evil to say
these truths from the heart in a public display,
of anger, resentment, of pent up disgust...
I'm whipped in the grip of my moral decay.
My principles left me, my ethics are rust,
my will to survive has gone belly-up bust.
I dream of an end to my miserable tale,
I weep for that sleep where my dust turns to dust.
The time is auspicious to push through that veil,
as all that we've built is predicted to fail,
as tenuous systems are starting to crash,
it's time to eject; pull-the-plug; try to bail.
So dreams of Elysium, of Heaven's sweet dell,
or sweating in Hades, now even sounds swell,
compared to the anguish I'm dealing with here,
I'd rather spit sparks in the center of hell.
"They've" robbed me of spirit, of fortune, and cheer,
the networks still fill me with unfounded fear,
while skewing the news and adjusting the facts,
"they've" massacred all that I've ever held dear.
"They're" printing up laws in two-thousand page stacks,
and Federal Reservists from Goldman and Sachs,
are robbing the rest of us hard working slobs,
"they're" always the first to skip out on THEIR tax.
Such arrogant globalist, socialist snobs,
who've pulled the wrong strings and who've turned the wrong knobs.
asserting their actions were all for the best,
have ended up wiping out thousands of jobs.
~~~~~~~ooo~~~~~~~
It's now Wednesday morning, I've had a good rest,
as bad as things are, I admit I've been blessed,
with many advantages over the poor
I park a nice car at my comfortable nest.
In so many ways I'm completely secure,
in spite of the fact that my options are fewer,
I've still got my health and some bucks in the bank,
I'm not digging ditches nor pitching manure.
From parents to teachers there's many to thank,
for being insightful and perfectly frank,
for honest critiques that would cut like a knife,
for giving me dreams when my mind drew a blank.
And though I might fancy my problems are rife,
with left-wing extremists, my boss, or the wife,
I'm sorry for causing inordinate pains,
(that "embittered old shrew's" still the love of my life!)
Red Pandas Somewhere In Tibet
May 2, 2011
The randy pandas munch their lunch of crunchy green bamboo
they're in a dandy stand of shoots with lots of insects too.
The squishy squads of arthropods on tender leaves and roots
are just as tart and tasty as the forest's flavored fruits.
These brandy-colored pandas look like overgrown racoons,
their furry face is flatter, like you might see in cartoons.
You'll never find them roaming in Wyoming or Marquette;
to seek them go to Sikkim, or to somewhere in Tibet!
Inspiration
May 27, 2011
I love random thoughts and pictures
as they're forced through mental strictures
from the pressure of imagination's weight,
these cerebral bits and pieces
bubble through the humps and creases
in my cerebellum's semi-conscious state.
Oh I love to dream of faces
in the far-off foreign places
like the Philippines or somewhere in Malay,
I imagine naked ladies
in these lands as hot as Hades,
and consider how they'd love to pet and play.
Then perhaps I'll dream of Greece's
sisters, aunties, mothers, nieces
to the Emperors who reigned back in the day,
They were toga wearing beauties,
with specific loving duties,
who helped ease their liege's stress along the way.
This was well before the Bible,
when the city-states were tribal,
when the Persians thought they'd dominate "the West,"
but the Grecian Aphrodites
in their silken see-through nighties
seemed to spark the spunky Spartans to their best...
Though his staff apprised King Xerxes
that he oughtn't try to irk these
stout defenders of Thermopylaean ground,
he would brook no dank dissuasion
to his plans for full invasion
which, on paper, seemed numerically quite sound.
As the Persian hordes descended,
on the pass that Greece defended,
it was clear that Xerxes didn't come prepared,
through the days and nights which followed,
Xerxes' front was badly hollowed,
and his forward progress totally impaired.
When the Persians were defeated
and their forces all retreated
to the empty realms of sand from whence they came,
then the Spartans celebrated,
partied down and jubilated
at the victories which the history books proclaim.
It's the same throughout the ages,
every prince has fights he wages,
and to victors go the wenches and the spoils;
if it wasn't Huns or Romans
then the Texans/Oklahomans
would be relishing the victories on their soils.
When it wasn't French or Russians
then the Lombards, Gauls or Prussians
would be kicking up a momentary stir.
If it wasn't Indonesians,
or the plucky Polynesians,
then some other source of conflict would occur.
Yet behind successful fighters
are the sultry sweet delighters
who deserve their recognition with the men,
since you'd never fight for Nation
if there wasn't inspiration
which compelled you to return back home again!
Humber Pie
May 12, 2011
Lush summer lit the trees to green
against a sun-pool sky
reflected in the river's sheen
where soaring eagles cry
Cool autumn sparked the trees to red
in bed with ochre skies
as sailors anchored off Spurn Head
in tidal flow reprise
Stark winter blasted trees to white
through days of gray-blot sky
the frozen river's lost from sight
in snow drifts six feet high
Unfaithful spring, now green, now grey
stalls saturated skies
o'er rivers breaching banks of clay,
to disbelieving eyes!
Their Merry Antiquary Thang
May 9,2011
Some starving poets bash their brains
on meter, scansion, strained refrains,
on dactyls, iambs, trochees, rests;
on amphibrachs and anapests,
on sense of tense and conjugation;
timbre, tone and intonation,
making common words ignite,
despite the critics': "Sing song shyte..."
Let quartus paeons strut their stress,
a peacock presence helps confess,
that starving poets' pawns and knights,
with chess-piece feet, like epitrites.
or choriambs, or sweet spondees,
apply their magic in degrees,
to stitched-up stanzas, long and short,
which chortle out a smart retort
in English, Latin, French and Greek,
the stresses' flavors: strong or weak,
which favors every word we speak,
converting plain to sharp and chic.
What rhythm prisms quake the core
of multilayered metaphor,
in ballads, sonnets, tried and true,
Far Eastern snippets of haiku,
in lyric forms of rhyming verse,
loquacious lines, or starkly terse,
polemics, like a verbal purse,
whose wisdom tries to reimburse,
our philosophic dings and dents,
through "depth" perception's different sense
through cinquains, couplets, triolets;
in rondelles, tankas, etherees,
in compact doses so immense
dispatched, displayed, in structured form,
or:
abstract rambles' turbid storm,
of letters, vowels, commas, quotes;
of formulaic asymptotes
which near a level never reached
until dear Xeno's halves are breeched
and words break through the mental wall
of post-cerebral "urbane sprawl"?
~~ Inspire, convey, compose, resign, rethink, rewrite, accept, decline
review, peruse, enhance, assign, construct, concoct, connect, align.
decide, describe, depict, define, defend, derive, descend, design ~~
Oh show your scant elusive face,
ye lyric anagogic case!
Embrace the sallow rhymes of spring
with lexemes which Thesaurii bring
to paper, pixels, 'puter, pen;
whose pitter-patter buck-and-wing
rap-taps, perhaps, on wooden floors,
whose echoes blast through swinging doors,
drowns out "the beat" in coffee shops,
this slam's more geared toward malt and hops,
in smoky bars with thugs and cops.
Its tightly drafted, crafted, verse,
demands its artists first rehearse,
like ancient poet pedagogues
who spun their verbal wheels and cogs,
reciting fine auld lang harangue...
...their merry antiquary thang.
Save Us From The Animals!
May 3, 2011
Oh mighty poacher, wowing us with skills!
Delighting us with rarest pelts and skins,
ignoring boring critics of your kills,
who heap upon you untold sheaves of sins!
Oh mighty poacher, blast away with glee!
Fill all the furry creatures full of lead,
abscond with every follicle and flea,
remove that precious iv'ry from each head!
Oh mighty poacher, Darwin's "missing link,"
you're primate: "brighter ape" or "lesser man?"
You've no regrets as species go extinct,
just filling quotas quickly as you can!
Oh mighty poacher, lock and load, rearm,
don’t sweat your unrecoverable harm.
That Retribution Be Our Prize
Apr 28, 2011
You had your chance to kneel, repent,
but now the fabric has been rent,
from war too big to circumvent,
the tattered cosmic cloth forspent
by politicians' dark descent,
they're trigger-happy fools.
The inner-circle knights and knaves
approved and launched the long-range waves
of gamma-radiated glaives,
the earth aglow, now even caves
are toxic dumps and open graves;
the reaper finally rules.
Oh how we slacked, became remiss,
our tempers full of vim and piss,
that helped us blow the final kiss
to humankind--and now all this--
six billion people seeking "bliss"
through darkened doors of death's abyss.
Ironically, we breathed our last
when "best and brightest" moved too fast,
suggesting peace could never last,
then brought us every mushroom blast
that spewed the deathly overcast
in cities great and small.
Reflected in our babies' eyes
the blinding flash that filled the skies,
that retribution be our prize
for quasi-democratic lies,
then atoms cut us down to size,
and hastened our aggrieved demise,
from pole to pole, to one and all.
A Glutton for Gluttony
Apr 22, 2011
As the griddle cakes are steaming, as the waffle iron dings,
as the fryer bubbles fiercely on the drumsticks, breasts and wings,
as the pantry offers treasures: carbohydrates, dairy, meat,
then I think it's time we all considered sitting down to eat.
If there's hot dogs, chips or cookies or a ten ounce slice of roast,
if you're making jumbalaya or a toaster full of toast,
if there's chicken in the oven or a tall Long Island tea,
then evict the freeload rabble and reserve a place for me!
When there's corn or mashed potatoes next to meatloaf on a plate,
when there's omelettes in the skillet or a bucket full of bait,
when there's crackers, cheese and veggies with the French Chef on TV,
then my fork is swinging double time, I masticate with glee.
Tell the donut hawks and snackers, tell the couch potatoes too,
tell the million junkfood junkies who just love to chomp and chew,
tell the gourmet chefs and bakers, tell the cutters of the cheese,
it's imperative I'm first in line or else my brain will seize.
Man the jello plates and saucers, man the pudding bowls and spoons,
man the super scooping ladels for the waiting room spittoons,
man the apple cores and orange rinds, serve them quartered, halved or whole
if it's one percent organic throw it in my plastic bowl.
I don't mind the salmonella, I don't mind the dirt or germs,
I don't mind a roadkill dinner if it twitches, blinks or squirms,
I'll attack a plate of gooshy guts or drink a bowl of slime,
just as long as I'm not cooking, any dinner fare's sublime!
San Francisco Blue Boys
Apr 21, 2011
We are a band of buccaneers in knickers tight and pink,
upon a tiny island where our horrid hulk is wrecked,
we beached the leaking Lisping Lark before she chanced to sink,
from battle wounds her hull received while looking for respect.
We're San Francisco pirates and we only want to fight,
as long as you are using shot that's silky, soft and light.
We're not too rough or rugged, and we'd rather dance or flirt
we'll fight you if you'll promise us that no one will get hurt.
We met a British Man-o-War, and hoisted up our flags
we thought that they might get the hint that we were really pissed
but when their three score cannon ripped our sails to shredded rags
they turned their tail and thumbed their nose and left us in the mist.
We're San Francisco pirates though we never want to fight,
we're really trying very hard to keep our laundry white.
We're not too rough or rugged, and we'd rather dance or flirt
we'll fight you if you'll promise not to poke us in the shirt.
A Finnish frigate focused on our newly mended sails
then used us as their target for some cannon aiming drills
the Lark was holed and listing so they mooned us from their rails
apparently contented with their close engagement skills.
We're San Francisco pirates and we'd rather talk than fight,
don't threaten us with sabers or we'll soon be taking flight.
We're not too rough or rugged, and we'd rather dance or flirt
we'll fight you in our leotards and freshly ironed skirt.
We stopped a fat old merchantman with one shot 'cross her bow
we'll plunder all her riches then we'll earn the right to boast!
But you should see the look that graces all our faces now...
her holds are full of guano from the mid-Chilean coast!
We're San Francisco pirates and we want to get this right,
we'll let you come aboard our ship but just don't hit or bite.
We're not too rough or rugged, and we'd rather dance or flirt
we'll gladly strike our colors if your captain's cute and pert.
A tuna trawler then approached assured that we would fold
convinced that we were wussies and our captain was a dunce
they pulled in close, then swung aboard, surveyed our empty hold
we really ought to rough them up, but let them off this once.
We're San Francisco pirates and perhaps you'd spend the night,
this macho "sink-the-other-ship" is so cliché and trite.
We're not too rough or rugged, and we'd rather dance or flirt
we'd sooner find our treasure with a shovel in the dirt!
Those 1980's Days of Old
Feb 26, 2011
The Nineteen-Eighties' days of old; of dollars, pounds and cents;
of bullish markets on the rise, in volumes so immense;
of job creation paradigms and Reagan's common sense;
rebuilding ships and armor for superior defense;
Those fine old Yankee days of pride,
When will they come again?!
A rude assassin tried to thwart the U.S. voter's will,
and in a flash the blood of four would splatter, spurt and spill,
but by the grace of God above, the shooter failed to kill,
and once again the "Nation's light shone bright upon the hill,"
In fine old Yankee days of pride,
When will they come again?!
"Islamic Jihad" killed two-hundred-twenty fine marines,
when barracks buildings suffered hits by suicide machines,
in one of Beirut, Lebanon's most horrifying scenes,
yet Army ranks were swelling with our patriotic teens,
In fine old Yankee days of pride,
When will they come again?!
As Muammar Gaddafi tried to keep the world in check,
by setting off a bomb within a German discothèque,
and further rattled sabers near the world's collective neck,
the Allies sent some airmail--made his home a smoking wreck!
In fine old Yankee days of pride
When will they come again?!
The Iran-Contra games were played like living pawns in chess,
and, in the end, distinctions blurred, it all became a mess,
so, who was good and who was bad, was anybody's guess,
I'll qualify "They got it right," by adding, "(more or less.)"
In fine old Yankee days of pride
When will they come again?!
The Marxist cancer spread through Europe's unprotected veins,
metastasizing at a rate outpacing freedom's gains,
until the nineteen eighties when appeasers dropped the reins,
then "Iron Curtains" crumbled to Conservative refrains,
Of fine old Yankee days of pride,
When will they come again?!
The Nineteen-Eighties decade was the best we've seen in years,
unlike the current mess we're in with deep financial fears
a wrench is firmly jamming all our economic gears
our end is likely closer than it casually appears
So no more Yankee days of pride, they'll never come again.
Everlasting Curse
Feb 1, 2011
I've got cancers, male enhancers, I've got ticks and taxes too,
I've got liens and loans and levies with my savings down the loo,
I've been censured, shunned, indentured, and my kids took off on cue,
I've got moldy rigatoni and my neighbor's going to sue.
I've got questions, indigestion, I've got flakes and flapping skin,
I've got scores of sores and scaling and a pustule on my chin,
There's a lot o' legal vermin in a fight I cannot win,
as I simply can't convince them that it was my evil twin.
So, subpoenas from hyenas filter in from far and wide,
and there's not a lawyer living who will want to see my side,
so it's breakdowns, shakedowns, takedowns just to prove I kinda lied,
it's a down and dirty duty, but they do it out o' pride.
I've got dandruff on my collar, all my clothes are full of holes,
when my socks are sewn and sorted then my shoes are losing soles,
it's a sordid sort of story as I'm stranded on the shoals,
of the county's canned corruption where they'll rake me o'er the coals.
I'm evicted, maledicted, and it's trending rather worse,
I'm a shunned and shriveled shirker with a shrimpy, shrinking purse,
It's a crummy kind o' chaos and my lack of luck's perverse,
I'm a lost and lonely loser with an everlasting curse.
Steam Dream
Jan 30, 2011
A tugboat tugging, tugging, on a barge tied to her rear
emerges slowly plugging through the fogbank just off shore
while steamers chugging, chugging through the harbor to the pier
disgorge the goods they're lugging which the stevedores will store
The lorries gather, gather, at the warehouse for a load
and horses in a lather pull their wagons, drays and carts
then after blather, blather, it's to fact'ries down the road
where all, hell bent for leather, take their sundry packs and parts
...where presses stamping, stamping, make prefabricated sheets
with shock absorbers damping at a few essential points
then vices clamping, clamping where the welder melts and heats
and tinkers' taps and tamping seal precision seams and joints
...where ramrods sliding, sliding, in reciprocating strokes
through bearings slick and gliding with light lubricating oils
...with flywheels riding, riding, on their thirty-something spokes
and manifolds providing all the steam the boiler boils
...where gears are turning, turning, as the chimneys belch their fumes
and engines keep on burning giant heaps of glowing coals
...with stokers, churning, churning, giving life to lathes and looms
which keeps this fact'ry earning quite enough to meet its goals
The Bandersnatch Boogie
Jan 29, 2011
It was not imagination on that fateful garden day,
when the rabbit in a waistcoat caused your plans to go astray.
He directed you to follow down a tunnel 'neath a tree,
which became a magic portal to a place no others see.
It's a place that's quite redeeming,
with a palace full of beds...
and the reigning queen is screaming,
"Let them sleep without their heads!"
And you'll tiptoe to the left a bit,
you'll tiptoe to the right,
It's the Bandersnatch's Boogie,
down in Wonderland tonight.
Now the riddles "rain" in Wonderland like thunderstorms back home,
and they hail from Humpty Dumpty or the Hatter's epic tome:
yes, "A Raven's Like A Writing Desk," it's plain for all to see,
they both have legs and innards and they both come from a tree.
Here, your thoughts are always streaming,
in chartreuses, blues and reds,
and there's always "someone" screaming,
"Let them think without their heads!"
But, you'll tiptoe to the left a bit,
you'll tiptoe to the right,
when the Bandersnatch's Boogie,
plays in Wonderland tonight.
When you do-si-do with Tweedledee, and trot with Tweedledum,
then you'll understand you'd rather prance with pretty little "Um."
Yeah, there's Absalom and Hatter and the evanescent Cat,
but it's Bandersnatch who'll match them with a scratch he's got down pat!
Is this double-dosage dreaming?
Have you swallowed all your meds,
as the Queen of Hearts is screaming,
"Let Them Dream Without Their Heads!"?
Oh, you'll tiptoe to the left a bit,
you'll tiptoe to the right,
to Bandersnatch's Boogie,
down in Wonderland tonight.
When you're dancing with a damsel on the eve of Frabjous Day,
and the band's producing noises which are neither blithe nor gay,
and the Jabberwock is hawking up a dark despondent tune,
as he watches waxing vapors frame a ghastly gibbous moon...
Then the Bandersnatch is beaming,
as the dance floor turns to shreds,
while the Queen of Hearts is screaming,
"Let Them Waltz Without Their Heads!"
And you tiptoe to the left a bit,
you tiptoe to the right.
It's the Bandersnatch's Boogie,
down in Wonderland tonight!
Six Limerix
Jan 14, 2011
A penguin who lived near the pole
was cooking while out on parole
he filled up his grill
with black-market krill
and twenty sardines which he'd stole.
He soon found his way back to jail
arrested by Sydney the Snail
the penguin was napping
when Sydney came slapping
on fin-cuffs designed by a whale.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
An ostrich, who wished he could fly
was clever, quick-witted and sly
he purchased a Boeing
and soon he was going
to everyplace covered by sky.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
An elephant never forgets
unless he smokes "those" cigarettes...
referred to as "weed"
his whole mind is freed
by weird psychedelic vignettes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My kitten has very sharp claws
as sharp as the teeth in her jaws
and though she's just playing
she's quickly filleting
my hands which are now wrapped in gauze.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Don't swim in the sea with a whale
on days when baked beans are on sale
his blast will impair
such volumes of air
you'll die if you try to inhale!
Alea Jacta Est (The Die Is Cast)
Jan 11
Alea jacta est
for wealthy as well the undressed
for losers and winners
for righteous and sinners
there's nothing to try but your best.
Alea jacta est
the clockwork of time will not rest
results may be brutal
resistance is futile
as history will surely attest.
Alea jacta est
you're senselessly beating your breast
events are in motion
get over the notion
your future can e'er be suppressed.
Alea jacta est
you may find this hard to digest
despite your cajoling
and micro controlling
you serve at your maker's behest!
How I Get Paid
Jan 6, 2011
The TELCOMP system gets my hours that SALSA programs send,
and using Einstein logic there's a stop-bit they append
they do that so the FoxPro tables update right on cue,
the string is then converted for a platform running GNU.
The payroll now gets analyzed by hardware using Fly,
and merged with Cyclone data which is optimized in Y.
It then gets reconverted into Obol (which I like)
by branching out to subroutines in Pico, Pict or Pike.
The data is quite stable in this multiprogram hell,
as oversight is carried out by trusty MDL.
Before my comp'ny cuts the check it's sent to our HQ
by ISP computers running Moby, MUMPS or MOO.
Then once its back in buffers on our HyperTalk device,
the LogTalk lingo's filtered out in one big Winbatch slice.
It's divvied up so FICA gets apportioned to the Fed
and health insurance info gets exported using Sed.
It sounds a lot more complex than it really needs to be,
you'd think they'd simply settle on a SNOBOL, SOAP or C.
I'm thankful for the engineers, and every sort of tech,
who oversee the systems which ensure I get my check!
*with help from: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_programming_languages
A Lament For American Beer
Jan 5, 2011
Take a retrograde distiller, for example, Busch or Miller,
Pour a glass of their substandard septic ale,
Like an aging pint of plasma it exudes a rank miasma,
So be careful not to take a full inhale!
There's the Old Milwaukee brewery mixing blends from Madame Curie,
Those Sklodowska Polish recipes of old,
Neither healthy nor attractive, they're insanely putrefactive,
With a taste that's neither wholesome, fresh, nor bold.
Then there's Coors up in the mountains, where they use artesian fountains,
Just to make emasculated forms of beer;
Since their brew's like horses leaking, Coors might reconsider tweaking
All the recipes which taste so flat and queer.
Though a monkey, ape or gibbon might enjoy a Pabst Blue Ribbon,
It's a bowel-loosing, poop inducing drink,
As a beer it most expresses all the flavorful excesses
Of the post Thanksgiving soap suds in the sink.
Did I mention Dundee Brewing and the rotgut they've got stewing,
In some vats where even cats avoid the smell?
It may be a poor man's lager, but as window-pane defogger
It's a formula which seems to work quite well.
Don't forget ol' Samuel Adams, used by all the whorehouse madams
As a sauce for perming plush bouffant-style hair.
It's a wonderful elixir as a fast and dirty fixer,
Just ask Charo, Phyllis Diller, and/or Cher.
Now I don't intend to bicker, but if you think Schlitz Malt Liquor
Is in any way "exception to the rule,"
Then you must've gotten pasted well before you ever tasted
That reformulated jug of llama drool.
It's a shame U.S. libations are complete abominations,
When compared to great concoctions overseas,
They've got stature, backbone, merit; they're the eagle, we're the parrot,
With our drinks which don't declare, but only tease.
The Big Chill
Dec 30, 2010
December has got me despising
the weather which I am surmising
is straight from the Arctic
(so anti- cathartic!)
...that merc'ry had better get rising!
Impending Referendum
Sep 9, 2010
The dice were cast, the molds were set,
for astronomic mounds of debt,
as credit crunched and futures flailed,
while economic engines wailed,
from budget busters in a sweat,
insisting all the banks be bailed.
They fed the furnace, fanned the flames,
they paid the most outrageous claims,
they got their big financial thrills
by printing tons of phony bills,
by shuffling funds and playing games
with largesse from their money mills.
The markets hiccupped, gurgled, burped,
and that was when the Feds usurped
a role to limit Wall Street's pay,
(a role they're ill-equipped to play)
but brokers hardly even chirped,
they acquiesced and paved the way.
Progressives laud these recent "gains,"
they've sanctified John Maynard Keynes,
despite the falling G.D.P.
and unemployed at nine-point-three.
They're numb to working families' pains
and plan a huge bureaucracy--
--to manage this and govern that,
to wreck our lives in nothing flat
with bureaus writing rules and regs,
on any day, a hundred megs,
and friends, they'll squish you like a gnat,
they'll "cap" your knees and break your legs*--
--for noncompliance with their laws,
their brazen acts should give you pause:
they've spent the nation in a hole
yet still they want complete control,
and so they bare their teeth and claws,
your swift submission is their goal.
But this November polls will see,
the "Vast Right-wing Conspiracy"
is energized to oust some libs
from penthouse suites to ghetto cribs.
Incumbents best get on their knees,
and stop their streams of filthy fibs.
(*figuratively speaking)
Desolate Voyager
Mar 17, 2010
I'm wont to say the breaker's price is much too much for me;
these rusty plates and rivets left their profits far to sea.
With holds too small and hull too slow and engines caked in grime,
the Blue Riband was well in hand for other Ships of Rhyme.
Nay, I am just a hollow hulk with garbage barge in tow,
this worthless freight and dunnage was devalued long ago.
With clouds of smoke and trails of oil I've briefly left my mark,
upon this sea of memory while sailing in the dark.
Pablo P's pre-(Pop Art) Poetic Culture Sculpture
Mar 15, 2010
^-
-o----
----------o----
------------------o----
------------------------------o----
------------------------------------------o----
jointed poignant parts and pieces
popping points in sexy creases
swinger's sweaty sweet releases
------------------------------------------------
Symbol Size Grows Larger On The Way
------------------------------------------------
CUBIST NUDIST DARTS AND DIMPLES
DADA DAUGHTERS, GRACE DALRYMPLES
HARDLY RIPE, STILL POPPING PIMPLES
------------------------------------------
courtesans for urges held at bay
------------------------------------------
Dali's Deuced, By Gosh, By Golly
Flowered Fop With Sprig Of Holly
Lonely Nights, So Melancholy
----------------------------------------------------------
GALA CLOCKS AND WATCHES BEND AND SWAY
----------------------------------------------------------
monet leaves a good impression
schedules Freud for double session
canvasses for full confession
---------------------------------------------
Mostly In Remembrance Of Manet
--------------------o------------------------]
--------------------o------------------------]
CANNONBALL AND HUMAN WRECK
WHISKEY, WINE AND TRIPLE SEC
HENRI M. TOULOUSE LAUTREC
---------------------------------------------
every single cell put into play
---------------------------------------------
Glossy Fashion Magazines
Nimble Nymphs And Euroteens
Always Find The Ways And Means
----------------------------------------------
TEASING EASY EASEL WEASELS GRAY
----------------------------------------------
color, pigment, oil, acrylic
seaside prospect, most idyllic
propaganda in Cyrillic
--------------------------------------------
LIVING NOW TO DIE ANOTHER DAY
--------------------------------------------
O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O
The Crawford County Society of Cynics
Mar 3, 2010
The third day of March in Two Thousand and Ten,
I got to the bakery at nine forty-five;
with coffee, two donuts, my paper and pen,
I listened to somebody's paranoid jive.
T'was some of the regulars bleating away,
some harmless old geezers who never feel well,
they didn't have anything funny to say,
just harping on everything going to hell:
"The unions are crooked, they're out for their own,
they're hiring and firing, creating a mess.
The stewards all promise to throw us a bone,
though when we might get it is anyone's guess.
Forget about ethics or calling the law,
corruption's infected the courts and police.
Addressing your grievance, the judge will guffaw,
the bailiff is hot to unholster his piece.
See, back in his chambers the judge has prepared,
a banquet of Mary Jane, acid and speed.
His cronies are feasting on stuff that they've snared,
from convicts they've sentenced who'll never be freed.
They're all in together from here to St. Claire,
the faces are different, but tactics the same,
there's no one to stop them, there's no one who'd dare,
since Michigan's Congress is in on the game.
It's even much worse if you head for D.C.,
they'll kill you for thinking some day you might squeal;
when running for Congress corruption is key,
you're fully expected to lie, cheat and steal.
And don't think those hypocrites aren't doing drugs,
the President said that he's fond of cocaine.
They'll wow you with handshakes and sweet baby hugs,
while every day pushing their own brand of pain."
Conquering Curves of Time and Space
Feb 28, 2010
Come sail away through dusty lanes and veils,
through cosmic shifts of interstellar sands,
behold the planets' rings and comets' tails,
and asteroids which tumble in their bands.
Come travel through a cluster's densest core,
through regions of a hundred thousand suns,
and with your pedal flat upon the floor,
peruse the interplanetary runs...
...where shuttles travel quickly to and fro,
where cargo ships deliver rocks and ore,
where humans rehabilitate and grow
once barren moons with every stock and store.
Come journey into space's dark abyss,
to new uncharted stars and hostile rocks;
where hell and heaven both have left their kiss,
where time surpasses calendars and clocks.
...where gases coalesce and start to boil,
where neutron dwarves mark starry last remains,
with vortex fields whose gravitating coil,
consumes the nearby dusty spheres and plains.
Oh cruise with me through Magellanic clouds,
through nebulas and thin galactic arms.
We'll see the awesome Sagittarian shrouds,
and catch a glimpse of grand galactic charms...
...and then we'll tour the stars of Hercules,
and set a course for Taurus and beyond,
our Seven Sisters in the Pleiades
present a place to which we might abscond.
Andromeda, Auriga and Orion
to Perseus and Pegasus as well,
to Leo and to Lyra we'll be flyin'
and then we'll stay in Serpens for a spell.
These constellations beckon to our soul
beseeching us to quell our every fear
to conquer curves of time and space, our goal,
that distant destinations be brought near.
Living Large While Fortune Smiled
[Pride and Prejudice Revisited]
Feb 25, 2010
A tempest in the teapot,
has, in just so many words,
put everyone in uproar:
Bennets, Bingleys, and De Bourghs.
Now Mrs. Bennet's daughters,
(two are sane and three are not,)
must marry wealthy fellows,
else they'll wither, fade and rot.
There's Jane the raving beauty;
also Lizzie with her smarts;
and bible wielding Mary
plus two very silly tarts.
A wealthy gent from London
takes a home, it is revealed,
his name is Mr. Bingley
and he's just bought Netherfield...
...and Netherfield's a mansion,
five short miles from Liz and Jane
who live at Longbourne Manor
rather quaint and downright plain.
But dances, balls and parties
let the girls display their wares
though Bingley's cohort Darcy,
doesn't care for country airs.
He's rude and unbecoming
and the girls all hope he leaves,
but Bingley's lost without him
as the two are thick as thieves.
To complicate proceedings,
Mr. Collins comes to town,
a pompous ass and toadie
and by all accounts a clown.
Presumptive heir to Longbourne
he's repugnant as they come,
Declaring love to Lizzie
her rejection strikes him dumb.
So off to Charlotte Lucas
toadie Collins pleads his case,
(she is a friend of Lizzie's
and his love she does embrace!)
The two pack up for Hunsford,
and the regal Rosings Park,
where some weeks later Lizzie
visits Charlotte on a lark.
And who is there but Darcy,
in the mood to find a spouse
but Lizzie flatly tells him
he's a proud pretentious louse.
Her scorn for Darcy hardened
after someone spilled the beans:
how Jane was split from Bingley
Mr. Darcy was the means!
She also held against him
sins against his boyhood friend;
he forced his destitution,
charges Darcy must defend.
He writes a long drawn letter
proving he was slyly smeared,
by boyhood friend, called Wickham,
so, of one charge, he is cleared.
No sooner is this letter
comprehended with some pain
when Lizzie reads two others
sent by lovely sister Jane.
From Jane we learn that Wickham
who's a soldier for the crown,
eloped with sister Lydia,
the biggest flirt around.
They stow away in London,
where, accumulated debts,
are paid by Mr. Darcy
when they're wed against all bets.
Then Bingley is persuaded
Jane might make do after all,
he hustles back to Longbourne
dropping in to make a call.
At this point Lady Cath'rine
Mr. Darcy's wealthy aunt,
hears rumors he's to marry
someone whom she thinks he can't.
That someone is Miss Lizzy,
Lady Cath'rine is dismayed!
She travels straight to Longbourne,
makes it plain "it" is forbade,
eschewing such engagement
which her nephew might propose,
their names would not be mentioned!
Other sanctions she'll impose!
But Lizzie isn't biting,
Lady Cath' can go pound sand,
She has no right to meddle
if the nephew asks her hand!
When Darcy hears the answer,
hope returns to him once more.
He makes his way to Longbourne,
knocks politely on the door.
Proposing for the last time,
as they walk on into town,
Miss Lizzy is embarrassed
with those words she turned him down.
"You thought me 'void of feelings
I still hear your harsh reproof
Your words exposed my essence:
condescending and aloof."
"So if you will now have me
all my feelings are unchanged."
Her heart was VERY different
and the marriage was arranged.
Although his aunt was angry
they, in time, were reconciled.
The Bingleys, Bennets, Darcys:
Living large while fortune smiled!
American Gigolo
Feb 7, 2010
The Speed-Date advert made a claim
to match up girls with guys
and now I wonder, "Who's to blame,
for spreading heinous lies?"
Oh, don't assume it came to naught,
and didn't change our lives,
though nearly fifty men lost out,
I've now got fifty wives!
The Death of Dylan Doe
Feb 23, 2010
Dylan Doe, of Dill & Doe, was Delwin Dolan's future foe,
for fate foresaw the death of Doe, by Dolan's deadly basswood bow.
The duo dated Darla Deaux, though neither man was s'pposed to know.
O woe was Doe when Darla dear made clear that Dylan had to go.
So Doe, to show his Dolan spite, hit Delwin D. with all his might.
Though Delwin seldom held him in a state of utter hate,
the blow that Doe had dealt him was decidedly too great,
and thus that fuss inspired a fight which should have set the matter right.
A swing was swung,
returned,
then two;
combatants battling, black and blue,
were quick to kick, concuss, and chew;
their hatred grated through and through.
They pounded, pasted, poked and smacked;
then clouted, pouted, clashed and thwacked,
though both were busted, bleeding, choked
they then withdrew, perplexed, provoked,
and that's when Delwin drew his bow,
then let the narrow arrow go.
Across the fertile field it flew until it ran old Dylan through!
His final words were very few: "Oh Darla, dear, I do love you."
The funeral father, friends and crew then bid his bod' a fond "adieu;"
and Del's now deep in legal stew for sins against the soul he slew.
Lord Reginald
Feb 13, 2010
Morgana McDermot is blindingly weird,
her armpits need shaving and so does her beard.
Her mind is dissolving, she cackles and laughs,
she's known around town for embarrassing gaffes.
She lives in a manor three hundred years old,
its windows are broken and let in the cold;
the shingles are shattered, the brickwork is broke;
the chimney sporadically belches black smoke.
The trees in the front are disfigured old scrags
they stoop like Morgana, poor miserable hags.
The gardens are wilted, the grass is unkempt,
the bushes are growing in purest contempt
for vines on the trellis and weeds in the yard,
they're jaundiced, offensive, disdainfully hard.
Morgana is likewise a wretched old wreck
with only one impulse she can't keep in check:
She took in a kitten, then later, two more,
and now a year later it's felines galore.
She's importing squirrels, and kangaroo rats
to feed her eight-hundred-and-eighty-six cats.
With Balinese, Calicoes, Tabbies and Manx
and two little mousers with flecks on their flanks,
some Persians, Angoras, and cooners from Maine
plus hundreds of ferals: striped, spotted and plain.
Her tabby, named Flabby, is king of the hill
there isn't a creature old Flabby can't kill,
he's slaughtered an eagle, two hawks and a fox,
he knows how to wrestle, jujitsu and box.
The canines respect him, coyotes just run,
old Flabby kills badgers for sportsmanlike fun.
He's taken his lumps and he bears a few scars,
he likes to play "chicken" with oncoming cars.
One night, before midnight, a rogue little mouse,
laid claim to McDermot's gray three-story house.
He conked a few kitties then made his decrees,
insisting they call him Lord Reginald Cheese.
Now Flabby was absent, out catting around,
he'd rolled a few moles and he'd walloped a hound.
He dove in some dumpsters and scrapped with a skunk
he drank some Drambuie, indeed, he got drunk.
It must've been just about quarter to four,
when Flabby was dragging himself through the door;
his whiskers were bristled, one eye was swelled shut,
some blood was now caked where he'd suffered a cut.
Then Jin Abyssinian related the news,
how Reginald Cheese had been filling his shoes.
"He's only a scrap of a mouse, there's no doubt,
yet somehow his spirit's sufficiently stout
to conquer eight hundred and eighty five wussies
he called us a 'petrified pack of punk pussies!'"
Well Flabby felt shabby, his bro's let him down
surrendered their pride to a new mouse in town?!
No wonder the others quite drove him to drink,
he grabbed Reggy Cheese then made off for the sink.
He twisted the faucets for hot and cold flow
he whispered last rites, then let Reginald go,
but someway and somehow, despite your supposal,
t'was Flabby the Tabby sucked down the disposal,
and there on the counter, just smart as you please,
stood alpha male rodent, Lord Reginald Cheese.
Lucindaland
Feb 3, 2010
Lucinda Lumpkin owns a store for rare exotic gifts.
It's elevators, escalators, ladders, slides and lifts,
help plucky shoppers get around, exploring floor to floor,
from deals down in the basement up to steals on twenty four.
She's filled her cupboards, cubbyholes, compartments, drawers and bins,
with multitudes of products in their boxes, wraps and tins.
The total count of items which she carries in her store:
Three hundred fifty thousand seven hundred sixty four.
With potions, lotions, tinctures, powders, balsams, balms and cremes,
to string-art nets in branches made for catching native dreams.
With trinkets, baubels, souvenirs, and knick-knacks by the ton,
Lucinda stocks the strangest stuff both functional and fun.
The cuckoo clocks and polished rocks and pearlite pots and pans,
are stowed on shelves with Hummel elves and Oriental fans.
There is no rhyme or reason 'tween an item and its place,
Lucinda simply stores it when there is an open space.
So rubber balls and overalls and "magic" jumping beans,
are in the same display case as the voodoo figurines.
The thermal briefs from Burma are residing in a drawer,
in one of many chifforobes up on the fourteenth floor.
From puzzles, charms and bracelets to the rarest old cologne,
Lucinda's bound to have the things you'd really like to own.
In fact, it's rather difficult to buy for spouse or friend,
because you'll buy so much yourself there won't be more to spend.
It happened once in '93 a shopper went insane,
he took a dozen shopping carts and tied them in a train.
He filled them up with so much stuff, but unprepared for strain,
then pulled too hard and must have blown a lugnut in his brain.
Two paramedics hastened to the shopper on the floor,
his twitching looked bewitching, he was shaking to the core,
then once they had him stabilized and got his quakes to cease
they shopped until they both had filled a dozen bags apiece.
The aura is magnetic; one's compelled to take a look;
you want to search each cranny, every corner, closet, nook.
You'll think about Lucinda in Cabinda and Japan,
traversing Upper Volta on her way to Kyrgyzstan.
She searches for exotic gifts in strange unusual shapes,
she likes to look for marabous, merinos, cloaks and crepes.
She deals with charming Hindis in the Indies and beyond;
safaris with Biharis as she builds a common bond.
And then she's back from all her many trampings, treks and trips,
the goods will be transported by some French container ships.
She'll work all day and stock all night until the job is done;
for Miss Lucinda Lumpkin this is just a day of fun.
Lucinda knows precisely every item's floor and shelf,
for forty years she's had to run this place all by herself.
A rare and trusting woman who exemplifies "good will"
her store is always open with an honor-system till.
Nature: Up Close and Personal
(for a contest, "Write about Nature")
Jan 29, 2010
What in heavens counts as nature?
Is it all the nomenclature
which is pertinent to physics, stars and trees?
Is it any more astronomy,
than bovine physiognomy?
O tell me what is "nature" if you please!
Should I lecture on biology,
or deep-sea ichthyology,
where creatures lurk in phosphorescent glow?
Shall I rant on rats and ravens,
or the sparrow's misbehavin's?
O tell me, what is "nature" so I'll know!
Could you please be more specific,
like, "Atlantic or Pacific"
or perhaps a certain mountain chain or sea.
Is it vireos and vultures,
or the complex insect cultures,
which you'd like to hear a monograph from me?
I would really love to tackle
how the blackbird, crow and grackle
have evolved from early Cenozoic days.
I could give my allocution,
on the role of evolution
as it appertains to creatures' DNAs.
Might I speak on grains and grasses?
Zebras, horses and jackasses?
Would you like to hear of deer and swift gazelles?
Could I tell you of the "nature"
of a fickle legislature,
and the sordid brand of evil that it sells?
As I'm sitting here expanding
how this project's too demanding,
understanding you won't likely be amused;
I can't choose a category
from the fauna or the florae...
...it's my NATURE to be fuddled and confused!
(I'd Trade) Two Mules For Sister Sarah
Jan 27, 2010
There's a statesman, Sarah Palin, whom the lefties are assailin',
since she represents the mainstream of the Right.
So, despite her high approval, she decided her removal
would alleviate Alaskans of her plight.
Though she stepped down under pressure in a scene which M. C. Escher
would have sworn was too surreal for him to paint,
as the leftist legal vermin swarmed Wasilla to determine
how to sully Sarah's image as a saint,
with historical perversions so the Press could cast aspersions
on this Gov'nor who reduced the graft and waste;
it was crucial that they stopped her since there's so much that's improper
back in District of Columbia where they're based.
They could not afford inspection so they played their misdirection
in an effort to distract the gawping herd,
who today are stuck in breadlines since they placed their faith in headlines
and believed the "mainstream" press's every word.
There's a statesman, Sarah Palin, who's successfully derailin'
Fed'ral healthcare as she's coming into vogue,
adding int'rest to the drama is rejection of Obama,
as our heroine continues "Going Rogue."
Her Five Year Mission
Jan 12, 2010
There once was a captain named Kirk,
whose enterprise called for much work,
he'd entertain gazers,
with bright colored phasers,
and kill birds-of-prey in the murk.
Now Kirk was companion to Spock,
whose logic was solid as rock,
and Spock liked to toy,
with Doctor McCoy,
as Doc liked to mock Mister Spock.
...and who could forget Mr. Scott?
"I'm given 'er all that she's got!"
His ranting and raving
at parts misbehaving,
would tempt him to scrap the whole lot!
There also was lovely Uhura,
a linguist from East Bujumbura.
Her knowledge of lingo,
from French to Mandingo,
would pay for her pad in Ventura.
Last, Checkov and Sulu befriended,
the pair with whom all else depended,
they'd navigate space,
and Klingons erase,
plus other tasks Kirk recommended.
'eh Lassy!
Jan 11, 2010
Come walk me thither down the lane,
enchant me with your smile;
my heart's intent I must explain,
if you have got a while.
Perhaps our time would better pass
reclined on grass and tree;
cuz' if you're not a talky lass,
you're not the lass for me!
Come walk me thither in the pub,
meet Mattie, Mick and Sean;
they like to drink and down some grub,
and stay out dusk 'til dawn.
So take a seat, like Sunday Mass,
and raise your glass with glee,
cuz' if you're not a drinking, lass,
you're not the lass for me!
Come walk me thither to a spot,
that's hidden, out of sight;
despite my tongue (a Celtic knot)
I'll try to say outright:
Just kiss me with your sultry sass,
don't dither, pass nor plea;
cuz' if you're not a kissing lass
you're not the lass for me!
Come walk me thither to the church,
where Father Paddy Hayes,
will end our constant need to search,
for all our destined days.
And though I be a shameless ass,
a'beggin from one knee,
I pray you'll be my lifetime lass,
cuz' you're the lass for me!
Hacks Upon "the Hill"
Jan 4, 2010
The healthcare mess is tough to comprehend,
as private sector firms engage the Fed,
but for a couple minutes let's pretend,
that hacks upon "The Hill" mean what they've said...
...and so you have insurance needs one day,
you study all providers large and small,
"We're worth ten million bucks!" says comp'ny "A,"
to which you think, "That's nothing much at all!"
Then looking up the assets claimed by "B,"
you find they're holding ten-fold more than "A."
Yet that is just a drop compared to "C,"
the comp'ny which is suited best to pay.
Yet when you make your choice, your mind goes blank,
with hacks upon "the Hill" you do enroll!
Forget that they've not one buck in the bank,
but operate TEN TRILLION IN THE HOLE!!!
No Toys in 2009
Dec 24, 2009
Now Dasher took his snowmobile,
and wrapped it 'round a tree,
and Dancer's down with flu this year,
and Cupid's got V.D.
And Comet took his Grandma to
a clinic in Vermont,
and Blitzen won't do Christmas since
he's read Immanuel Kant.
And Donner's smoked too much this year
he coughs up gobs of phlegm,
and Prancer maybe flipped his switch,
he's scarred from S & M!
And Rudolph took his wife and kids,
and moved to Tampa Bay,
and Vixen's just a girly girl,
too small to pull that sleigh.
So Santa's going to call it quits,
and skip Two Thousand Nine,
but if you want to see him check
the unemployment line.
Her Plane Is Coming
Dec 19, 2009
(Sung to the tune of Battle Hymn of the Republic)
She has wandered through the garden with a severed length of hose,
she has blown out all her candles with one nostril of her nose,
she has painted little daisies where the brick and mortar grows,
her brain's not set to right.
Tortured, tortured little brain cells;
ringing, dinging little train bells;
water's dried up in the main wells;
her plane is right on time.
There's a copper chicken-chopper in the henhouse of her barn,
There's a little orphan Annie who is spinning quite a yarn,
There's a stuck-up statistician but she doesn't give a darn,
her brain's not set to right.
Tortured, tortured little brain cells;
ringing, dinging little train bells;
water's dried up in the main wells;
her plane might be on time.
There's a chronic lack of cleaner in the bathroom of her brain,
she is venting unrepenting as her yeas and nays abstain,
it's a shocking situation with a sense of true disdain,
her brain's not set to right.
Tortured, tortured little brain cells;
ringing, dinging little train bells;
water's dried up in the main wells;
her plane is not on time.
It's a hundred thousand lightyears from her left hand to her right,
her accomplishments are zero she can point to every night,
the wind is blowing fiercely but she doesn't have a kite,
the rest of us are screwed.
Tortured, tortured little brain cells;
ringing dinging little train bells;
water's dried up in the main wells;
her plane is way past time.
("She" is Jennifer Granholm)
Butterfly Kisses
Dec 18, 2009
I had to get from here to there one hot, late-August day
so threw a beat-up suitcase in my banged-up Chevrolet
The tires smoked, and engine roared; the air was filled with fumes;
it's always quite amazing how much gas that car consumes!
The fuel needle sank from sight like terns that dive for fish
and just as I sped up a bit I heard a great ker-SQUISH!
A butterfly had lost his try to flit across the road
that sucker hit my windshield like a cream-pie a la mode.
A monarch here, a viceroy there, a swallowtail, then two,
the glass was turning sort of dark from all the butter goo.
A great big luna fluttered out then splatted on the glass
the windshield wipers made it worse with every sweep and pass.
A checkerspot and sulphur added colorful remains,
and then I hit a big one with a half an ounce of brains.
A polyphemus tried to skirt the windshield's fatal snare,
but smacked that sort of tinted strip that helps reduce the glare.
I pulled off at an exit, found a place to scrape and clean
my poor old banged up Chevrolet was one messed up machine!
The "kisses" on the windshield ranged magenta, ochre, peach--
according to my spotter's guide I've wiped out one of each!
Getting Her The Perfect Gift
Dec 12, 2009
I really want to try this year
to buy the perfect gift,
my wife will think me such a dear,
and she'll get quite a lift.
The Rivet Gun by Maybelline,
for patching flaps of skin,
that hang and flutter quite obscene,
is one sure way to win.
The NASCAR treadmill also might
enhance her speed and pow'r;
the highest setting seems just right:
two hundred miles per hour.
Home Depot's Estee Lauder kit
is something fresh and new,
it comes with drill and grinding bit
plus spackle, caulk and glue.
Or maybe she would like to have
the ACME cream for bumps:
you simply smear explosive salve
on facial rocks and stumps...
It comes complete with blasting caps
and detonation kit;
it cauterizes as it zaps
each blackhead, hair and zit.
I hear they make a solvent now
that eats mascara slabs,
it penetrates an inch somehow,
but leaves no burns or scabs.
The self-help books are always good
for chores she screws up most,
now someone wrote (I knew they would)
"A Dummy's Guide to Toast."
But here's the best gift I've seen yet
it's rugged, strong and free;
this year I think I'll give my pet
another year of ME!
A Wee Bit of Ire
Dec 7, 2009
I'm mad at me, I'm mad at "God,"
I'm mad at things so very odd
that if I told you what they were
your mind would seize and eyes would blur
'cuz nothing seems to jive with sense
our earthly lives are so immense...
from expectations, cans and can'ts
to chaste behavior, planned romance
to fam'ly, country, church and state
to narrow paths and flying straight
to profits, earnings, wages, bets
to paying bills, retiring debts
from destitutes to William Gates
there's less and less on ALL our plates
we're fighting, scrapping, grabbing crumbs
in hopes the rapture never comes
we worship sing and kneel and pray
then wonder if we throw away
our one real chance to feel some joy
we're hard to get, and playing coy
the politicians steal our rights
our cars and light bulbs in their sights
they lie about the c-oh-two
their carbon footprints seem to spew
a thousand times as large as mine
as they fly jets across the brine
to play in Europe, sell their lies
to boyish girls and girly guys
our taxes grow in leaps and bounds
as revenuers make their rounds
collecting for the latest cause
to take control without a pause
before they pass the plate again
to fund a war and kill off men
who should be here, not overseas,
not losing limbs to I.E.D.s.
yet Reps and Dems have both gone mad
DC is now "New Stalingrad"
with jackboot czars and ruling types
who desecrate our Stars and Stripes
the Constitution's wasted ink
she disappeared in just a blink
So "out" with patriarchal Gods
and in with "Rahms" and "Axelrods"
While Lord Obama rules on high
as freedoms wane, and spirits die.
Infinifemininity (or: How I Spend My Sleepless Nights)
Dec 2, 2009
I lie awake in bed most nights
with one thought in my brains:
like counting sheep I fall asleep
to Phoebes, Brookes and Janes...
with Kerrys, Marys, Linda Lous,
Lolitas Joans and Jans,
and Claras, Taras, Sarah Sues,
Brigitas, Joys and Annes...
with Honeys, Bunnys, Maggie Mays,
Rhiannas, Gwens and Dees,
and Connies, Bonnies, Brenda Kayes,
Svetlanas, Lynns and Leighs...
Charlenas, Ninas, Carolines,
with Darbys, Debs and Dawns,
Marlenas, Ginas, Madelines,
and Barbys, Bevs and Fawns...
Auroras, Lauras, Susie Q's,
Serenas, Brynnes and Brees,
Glencoras, Noras, Rhonda Roos,
Selenas, Gwinns and Beas...
With Zoes, Chloes, Nicolettes,
Acanthas, Kates and Fayes,
and Nickis, Vickys, Antoinettes,
Samanthas, Bettes and Raes.
The list is long, I love them all
each subtle curve and quirk,
and as they sweep my mind to sleep,
IT'S TIME TO GO TO WORK!!!
Learning Yiddish
Oct 30, 2009
After visiting a website called "The Yiddish Handbook: 40 Words You Should Know"
this is what I came away with:
A shmaltzy young schmuck of a goy
was shmoozing a yenta named Gert
kibbitzing all cutesy and coy
his shtick was so thick she was hurt.
"Oh stop with your bupkiss and spiel
your kvetching's offensive and gay,
you're such a non-kosher shlemiel
just shtup me and be on your way!"
Microsoft Universe ©
Oct 11, 2009
In just a few moments they'll throw the big switch
to energize circuits, the purpose of which
is running the networks and hardware routines
controlling the planet's ten billion machines.
The cameras and sensors in wide-spread arrays
will monitor "vitals" in so many ways,
from coffee pots, telephones, vehicle health,
to private investments and personal wealth.
They'll tap into furnaces, coolers and fans,
they'll modulate bicycles, autos and vans.
Their meters are watching each faucet and light,
they'll regulate networks, each bit and each byte.
Their nano-bot "fingers" will dip in your "pies,"
They'll know all your business, the "who, what and whys."
So nothing will happen without their consent,
they'll know to the penny how each penny's spent.
Computers will dictate each person's career,
there's nothing to wish for and nothing to fear.
They'll manage your actions, your habits and sleep;
they'll manage your health care as long as it's cheap.
They'll solve every problem, eliminate fate,
no thought is permitted except by the State:
(The "State" is a program that runs from a chip,
it downloads instructions to all in its grip.)
The program is structured to circumvent war,
no famines or hardships are ever in store,
for Microsoft Universe runs the whole show...
The poem ends here: (I'm instructed to go.)
A Friendly Fifty Grand!
Sep 20, 2009
Private Pringle had a poster of a toasted roller coaster
on a fun farm in the fields of Fargo Flats,
so he made a little wager with the trendy Sergeant Major
when they met for one of many friendly chats.
"Well, you know it's wrecked and rusting, every rivet needs adjusting,
but I'll bet you I could fix it in a week!"
Sergeant Major was dum-founded at how silly this all sounded
so composed himself before he tried to speak:
"While I know you're quite ambitious, here's a wager too delicious,
so, your bet is on for, let's say, fifty grand?!"
Pringle never blinked or wavered in this moment he so savored,
and, accepting stated terms, held out his hand...
...As the pair of men were shaking, sure of fortunes they'd be making,
they were staring at each other, eye to eye...
so they packed up all their cargo, then set off for distant Fargo
on a plane which neither man knew how to fly.
Private Pringle said he'd pilot; thought he might as well just try it;
Sergeant Major settled in the other chair...
...with a bit of wit and cunning, Pringle got the engines running,
and with very little effort took to air.
Pringle's sense of navigation was a hazy inclination
which, in this case, seemed to get the duo through,
Sergeant Major said "Outstanding!" after Pringle greased his landing
on the field in Fargo Flats to which they flew.
On the stroke of midnight Sunday, as the clock ticked into Monday,
Pringle's bet was now official, under way.
He was at his motel dreaming, of a roller coaster gleaming
and a "fifty-grand" addition to his pay.
On the afternoon of Friday, Sergeant Major took the highway
out to see the progress Pringle made thus far,
but the ride was still a shambles in the tumbleweeds and brambles
so the Sergeant Major took off for the bar.
As he walked up, there was Pringle(!) so he thought he'd intermingle
with the other patrons knocking back their gin.
They were riding high, excited, for the wrong to soon be righted
when their roller coaster ride would work again.
Everybody's conversation seemed to praise the renovation
which was rumored to be ready in the morn.
Sergeant Major started chuckling at the logic which was buckling...
Pringle really must be honking his own horn!
~o~o~o~o~o~
In the morning tots were teeming to the supersonic screaming
of the roller coaster looking clean and new,
Sergeant Major's brain was frying, as his eyeballs were denying
what he knew his Private Pringle couldn't do!
Yet the thing was up and running... such a feat was simply stunning...
how on earth did Private Pringle win the bet?
When a dozen trucks were nearing, labeled "Pringle Engineering"
Sergeant Major felt obliged to pay his debt!