Monthly Archives: December 2016

Good Bye ‘Til Next Year, With Artificial Birds

Rubber chicken,

Plastic duck.

The year is over;

That’s just our luck.

Ceramic peacock,

Wooden goose.

Next year is nigh

So I must vamoose. 

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Last Time I Answer Spam…

I’m in a time vortex

In a failed experiment to get more sex.

Now I’m trapped in 2098 selling Goretex.

2017 could have gone better.

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Decisions, Decisions

The 363rd poem

On the 363rd day…

A fraction of them were worthwhile

And none were about a buffet.

Two poems plus this one to go

And two days plus this one to do it

And I come to my annual question:

Do one more year or just screw it?

Regardless of if I continue

I’ve plans to compile one more book

To hold in your hands or on Kindle

(Or, for the hipsters among us, on Nook).

So for the loyal day-one poem readers

And the followers who joined this year

And the peasants who just found this website

(Without whom I wouldn’t be here)

I wish you a good two days plus this one

And a fair bit of new-anum cheer

And know that whatever my decision

The quality will not improve.

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A Warning To Insects, Politicians, And Others Of Their Kind (AKA Welcome To The Watchlist Thou Crappy Poet)

“Glorify me!”

Yelled the beetle

Before he was squashed

By old Mr. Cheadle.

So if you think you’re important

You’d best think again

Or else be on the lookout

For little old men.

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Racial PSA

Some claim my speech invalid

Because my skin is pallid.

Some think you can’t be right

If your skin blends into night.

But what we all agree upon

Be we dark or pale

Is that we’re superior to

The common goose or quail.

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The Cold, Desserted Street: A Trump Administration Report

The road is cold and lonely,

The street is chill and bare,

And the temperature is cold

On the abandoned thoroughfare. 

The avenue’s deserted

And the frost clings to my hair

As I concisely summarize

That ice is all that’s present there.

The lane’s devoid of people

And our breath hangs in the air.

The thermometer’s relative lowness

Means to be outside few apparently dare.

The cul-de-sac is frigid

And devoid of folk, I swear.

It’s frosted and filled with people

In such quantity as those whom about this poem still do care.

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Jack Frost Won’t Nip Your Nose Anymore

Chestnut’s roasting

On an open fire,

But you know all about that.

What I don’t know

Is why you thought

Chestnut was a good name for a cat.

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