Here lies Harry,
Who was hard to carry
To this six-foot deep apartment,
For he was a foodie
With a sizable bootie
And a never-full food compartment.
And that is why at his side
During the funeral I abide,
To provide my final gift,
For from Harry’s acquaintances
I’m the guy who works maintenances,
So I was chosen to drive the forklift.
Filed under Poems
‘Twas my 22nd Summer alone
When I met my love in a waffle cone.
She was sweet and brown and cool
And for her I was a fool.
I was but white, and sort of bland,
But still my love did take my hand.
Although we were of separate classes,
We both appealed to the masses.
And so I asked her for her name,
And sweet, of course, her answer came.
“I am lady Chocoliette,
But I do not know your name yet.”
“My name,” I said, “Is Vanillio,
And I think I’ve fallen in love with yo.”
We shared a kiss and some saturated fat,
Then some kid ate us, and that was that.
Thus ends the tale of Chocoliette
And her beloved Vanillio,
Who had a pretty decent life
As star-crossed lovers go.
Have you ever climbed a tree
Just to see what you could see,
And found halfway up that big-leaf maple
You’d climbed as high as you were able,
Then to your horror and surprise,
You looked down and realize
You’ve climbed too high to climb back down
And beneath you is a bear, all strong and brown?
And so you sit for an hour, then two
Hoping that the bear will shoo.
This may or may not have happened to me,
But either way, I’m not climbing that tree.
Filed under Poems
How stirring is the starry night,
Amidst the points of silver light
And the glowing of the orange full moon?
I’d say almost as stirring as noon.
Filed under Poems
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.
Filed under Poems
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.
Filed under Poems
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.
Filed under Poems
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.
