Monthly Archives: August 2014

How Board Games Are Made

No one’s shouted “Uno”
In what seems like years.
No one’s held my colorful cards
And laughed and spilled their beers.

No one’s read house rules
Or over my manual pored,
And while I am a card game
I’m starting to get bored.

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Stay-at-home Offspring

Don’t think that I’m a layabout,
A lazy waste of space.
Just see me as a checker
Who never leaves his space,
As a successful “Sorry” token
Who finally made it home,
Or a monopoly piece in jail
Because it costs too much to roam.

I that this 38-year-old
Doesn’t want to leave.
I just think I’m most valuable
At home, deterring thieves.
And while I don’t have money
It’s unfair to scoff
‘Cause any day my Etsy store
Is going to take off!

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are u the 1 4 me?!!!!!!!

I now u. U now me.
The guy hoo txts illiterately.
I liv evryware, C 2 C.
I mite hav a colledge dugree.

U mite think im sociutys dregs
Cuz u found me on that list of craigs,
But u havent had a date since 2003,
So ill get to now u, and u’ll now me.

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David and Goliath, AKA How “Kid Rock” Lost His Home: The World’s Shortest Epic (TM)

David got a little rock

In his vacuum cleaner

And used it to make his name.


Goliath got a little rock

In his cleaner as well,

And Arkansas was never the same.

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The Funny Bone (Danger: Puns)

It was the annual pickup game

At the Summer Camp for bones,

And the kids paid rapt attention

To a spine named Mr. Jones.


“I’d like to introduce you,”

They heard Mr. Jones declare,

“To a new bone.  His name’s humerus.”

Applause caressed the air.


“So are you funny?” Ulna asked,

Always one for the obvious question.

Humerus told the only joke he knew

About a small intestine.


Radius laughed politely

But the jawbone din’t move,

And the ribs agreed that joking

Did not his personality behoove.


And so the game began,

And balls were thrown and kicked,

And when it came to choosing teams

Humerus was the last bone to be picked.


It turned out that poor Humerus

Came off as much too smarmy,

So he hired some local muscle

And left to join the army.

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Orange is the Old Black

It’s hard to write a poem

About the color orange

Without the introduction

Of the convenient rhyme of “door hinge.”


But orange is not a color

So much as a happy time

When it shines with gold as a sunset

Over fields of orange and lime.


Orange is every childhood

When you bought the collared shirt

In a pumpkin shade with a purple sweater

As you rolled amidst the dirt.


But as you ran between the Autumn trees

With the citrus sun burning your feet

And your fashion clashing, you realized

Being a kid is pretty neat.

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Prophecy, Inc.

Sometime after the time of stress

When the world seems like a mess

An average person will appear

To speak of things the world will hear.

He or she will sound to some

Quite well informed; to others, dumb.

Thus are the words of Earth and Sky.

That’ll be $50. Thanks, buh-bye.

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When the Music Left the Elevator

The melody took to the sky

Carrying passengers as it soared.

It sang with all its passionate grace,

Yet the busy humans snored.


Later, the song descended.

Its calming chord still blares

Throughout the box for people

Uninclined to take the stairs.


The saxophones and drum set

Make monotony so sweetly

But the elevator’s patrons

Tune out its song completely.


So the melody went sideways

To where the unsmelled flowers go

And lived its quiet style of life

Under the uncounted stars aglow.


And those that rode that metal box

Just heard the elevator’s hissing

And they stared at the lights, unspeaking,

Unaware what they were missing.


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If you say “I’d save it,” you’re lying.

If I had a million bucks

I might buy a million ducks

Who would have a million ducklings

And I could watch them grow.


If I had a million bucks

I’d load them in a million trucks

And bring them around the country

To find their perfect doe.


If I had a million bucks

I’d wear a pair of diamond chucks

And a platinum pillow

For when I need to snore.


If I had a million bucks

In cash or deer or even ducks

I wouldn’t spend it prudently.

Perhaps that’s why I’m poor.


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The Fisherman’s Dilemna

They say I’m a workaholic

‘Cause I spend twelve hours a day

Away from Mabbs (my wife) and kids.

It’s the commercial fishing way.


Truth is, work gives me joy

That I just don’t get from Mabbs.

At work I catch the lobsters,

But with her I catch the crabs.

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