On behalf of all the tires kicked,
The roofs slapped, the bumpers knicked,
The cars entered without consent
And sold by men with ill intent:
We confess that in the past
We used you and we moved too fast,
Judged you by color and age
And failed to pay you any wage.
Forgive we ask, and hear our pleas
To cars and trucks and SUVs,
And with your help we make this vow:
With you, we’ll go the right way now.
Filed under Poems
Bloodshot are her yellow eyes,
Pearly white her claws,
And you have been found guilty
Of not following her laws.
She deigns to shake her golden mane
Before she makes you dead,
The only just denouement
For leaving the cat unfed.
Filed under Poems
If you tell me to take care of
A monster with eight eyes
I hope you won’t be unhappy
When it inevitably dies.
Filed under Poems
You can make a salad
Out of Jell-o or potatoes,
One with cheese and croutons
Or bacon, lettuce, and tomatoes.
And though you can make a salad
Out of nothing more than fruit, you
Chose to make a kale salad…
I have no choice but to shoot you.
Some are born as Queens or Kings.
Some are born as other things.
But be you bishop, rook, or knight,
At least you’re not a pawn. Am I right?
And if, unluckily, you are a pawn
You’d best just keep on keeping on.
You’ll reach a spot where life treats you fair.
(Or, more likely, you’ll get murdered on your way there).
And if you reach that special place,
A queen or rook you may replace,
Where you are but some king’s conquest
Or else called “castle,” despite your protest.
Or perhaps you’re promoted to a knight
And never again can you move quite right.
You could be a bishop, those stoic blokes
And victims of off-color jokes.
Only one can be the king,
The chosen one, or another such thing.
So if you’re a pawn, your best bet
Is to stay still in the corner with no regret.
The happiest piece, the jolliest lord
Of the 64-square light and dark colored board
Is the piece that stays safe at home.
That’s why I no longer roam.
Filed under Poems
Why do bad things happen
To good people,
And good things to bad people too?
I’ve discovered the answer
To this age old question
And I’m happy to share it with you.
See, God was still young
Before existence existed
And was bored by living alone,
So the deity started
A 30-day challenge,
His Godly skills for to hone.
The first couple days
He made the earth,
Light in the night and the day.
By day six he’d made
All the animals too,
And even made the color gray.
So after six days
He was no longer inspired
And thus ended his personal goals
Nine days short of such makings
As justice and Santa
And a good hair care line for Trolls.
Ugh! A bug!
I gave it a hug
From my heavy-duty, carbon-fiber swatter.
Another is spied,
And I can’t conceal my pride
‘Cause my darling saw the second bug and shot ‘er.
Filed under Poems
