I can curl your locks,
Give you mohawks,
A buzz cut, bowl, or mullet.
But when I see your hair
What I really care
To do is grab and pull it.
Though long and lustrous
Is your hair
I have no envy.
I just don’t care.
I am not jealous
Of your locks,
But I dearly wish
I had your buttocks.
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I’m tired of sleeping,
I long to be awake,
But my stupid human body
Has a need I cannot slake.
So I’ve decided on a compromise
To fulfill my needed slumber.
I’ll sleep while I’m at work.
It’s easy enough to cut up lumber.
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At first I thought myself lucky
To finally have someone buy
At my birds-in-trees emporium,
No less, at Christmas time.
The first day they bought a partridge,
Then later doves and hens.
They bought seven swimming swans.
But it got disturbing when
They tried to buy athletic lords
And dancing ladies too.
They offered me millions for drummers.
What’s this bird seller to do?
So no, I don’t want to divorce you,
Unlike the parrot sings.
I just need the wedding band back
So I can sell them five golden rings.
These mountains stand nobly,
Stalwart, not wobbly,
Like a pointy, elevated chunk of land.
Until the day the mountains moved,
A decision that the mountain behooved,
But quickly and succinctly got out of hand.
So nature called in the mountain cops
To stop the moving mountain tops,
But the summits, they found, were difficult to still,
And when the mountain cops were done,
The mountains had fallen to become
Little more than an oddly pointy hill.
So if you need to move mountains,
No need to hire accountan’s.
Just get the peak in trouble
And that mountain will turn to rubble.
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I haven’t seen
“Twelve Years a Slave,”
Though I’ve lived the story
In my own ways.
For eleven years
And eleven days
I labored in fields,
Harvesting hays.
But I guess they’ve no interest
In a dude
Who did eleven years
Of indentured servitude.
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There are many creatures like the weasel,
Who are seldom painted on an easel,
But to mention this to the rodent
Would be deemed very improdent.
Weasels are cruel by habit,
Unlike their cousin, the rabbit,
But the weasel’s full of love inside.
Don’t judge them ’cause they’re beady eyed.
The God of thunder
Sat in the dark
Drinking souls from an ancient cup.
Then his wife walked in
With a daylight bulb.
She was just lightening the whole place up.
So Mr. Thunder shut his door.
He was rubbed the wrong way.
He was rubbed downright Thor.
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The Daily Travesty 
On the Correction of Humans
It’s come to my attention
That the world isn’t flawless.
People are ugly, stupid, poor,
Foreign, local, and/or lawless.
To fix this inconvenient fact
I’ve thought up a solution:
Let’s choose some perfect people
And write up a constitution
And bind those other people
Under government and law.
Isn’t it nice that this system
Doesn’t have any flaw?
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Tagged as Government, Humor, Poetry, Social Commentary