A seahorse is always angry
For that is the seahorse’s curse.
You probably can’t tell that it’s angry
And that just makes the poor thing feel worse.
The things that make seahorses happy
Are skis and the word “Bangalore.”
The next time that you see a seahorse
I hope you can empathize more.
We the people laugh and sing
Though our houses serve as graves
To the offspring of the forests
And the farms of evergreen slaves.
We hang lights on the bodies
Of the trees we cut ourselves
And celebrate the sootiness
Of indentured arctic elves.
Our celebration is offensive
To terrorists a world away
Thus to mention “Merry Christmas”
Means you’re probably anti-gay.
So just say “Happy Holidays,”
And smile and submit
So folks who think this poem is serious
Will not have a fit.
You don’t often hear stories
About giant sea cucumbers
Who dabble in intrigue
And paint by numbers.
You don’t hear the stories
Of the cukes of the night,
But they’re real. One day
You’ll see that I’m right…
When you slip on a banana
While you wish upon a star.
When you’re whistling Santana
And someone steals your car.
When you order Cappuccino
But you’re served Americano.
When your spelunk with Al Pacino
And you get covered in guano.
Whenever great things happen
Followed by a social gaffe…
Sure, that stuff is funny
But you don’t have to laugh!
What if chickens had no wings
And skin instead of feathers
And human legs and feet and heads
And wore clothing made from leather?
What if chickens were actually humans
But disguised as mindless poultry?
I don’t know what my conclusion is,
But I hope it’s something sultry.
I fell in love just ten hours ago
To, literally, the girl of my dreams.
We met while in prison and she kissed me so loud
That the guards thought the sound was a scream.
So they took her away and apparently killed her.
They fed her to Jabba the Hutt.
You can see why the dreamland convict I was
Felt like I’d been shanked in the gut.
And later I learned I’d inherited money
To pay off my million dollar “bounty.”
So I paid it and left, absolved for my theft
And fled to a different county.
There I met my love, alive and well
And we lived happily as we could have been.
Sometimes a poet need not be creative.
He need only remember his dreams.
Two months before Julius Caesar fell
Another death occurred.
The victim was Humberto Caesar,
The emperor’s pet bird.
Well Humberto was as loyal as
A domesticated bird could be,
But power comes along with a price:
Humberto had enemies.
Most prominent was Clint,
Brutus’s pet cat.
‘Twas a miserable furball of betrayal,
But every cat’s like that.
Well I don’t need to tell you
How Humberto was killed by Clint,
But being the Ides of January
Julius should have gotten the hint.