Bigger is better in terms of pianos,
4×4’s, salaries, and dicks.
But smaller is better in the eyes of go-getters
When it comes to the waist size of chicks.
——————————————————–
Bigger is better, the man would insist
When it comes to masculine stuff
Because those said men have never had things
That were, in our eyes, big enough.
Filed under Poems
‘Twas the week before football
And all through the States
Everyone outside Boston
Came to terms with their fates.
So many Don’taes,
Tyrones, and Lamars
Checked if Wendy’s needed
Someone who could lift cars.
Meanwhile those lucky
To remain on their teams
Prayed the ACL gods
Would not ruin their dreams.
The fans were all cozy
Wrapped up on their couches
While the TV says who’ll be
The sleepers and slouches.
And a tenth of a billion
Mostly female folks
Didn’t see the appeal
Of tackling blokes,
Yet still two-hundred-million
Pulled on overpriced shirts
With the last name of someone
Whose whole body hurts.
They’ll sit back to watch
As the combat begins.
They’ll be happy as long
As their animal wins.
Filed under Poems
We once had damsels in distress
And knights to ride to their aid.
Although the knights and damsels are gone
The distress somehow has stayed.
As the all-knowing poet
I have a solution of course:
We need more women who love dragons
And fewer men who own a horse.
Filed under Poems
There are 300 urinals present.
Just the first and last are used at all.
If one of those two isn’t open
Non-sociopaths use a stall.
Filed under Poems
I questioned the need
For vagina monologues.
Why we needed them was a mystery.
Then I realized
That the penis dialogues
Was basically just all of history.
Filed under Poems
All the single ladies
Ask where all the good men went,
Dreaming of the good old days
When the six-foot-plus millionaires
Without egos or exes
Would contact them conveniently
And buy them stuff
All without leaving the house.
Meanwhile the six-foot-plus
Drama-free millionaires
Are in their basements
Roleplaying car thieves
And writing bad poetry blogs.
You’re welcome.
Filed under Poems
Most men enjoy solving problems;
It gives them a meaningful life.
Alas, this is not something wanted
By most men’s eventual wife.
A man will fix up an auto,
A house, a business, a toy,
But it’s not solving problems but having them
That I’ve noticed most women enjoy.
A woman takes pleasure in saying
“I’m hungry, I’m tired, I’m gross,”
Because other women say “me too”
And by such connection grow close.
If a man tells another “I’m hungry”
Another will say “have a snack”
And the problem is solved with five words
And the men to their task may go back.
Now the trouble occurs when the solvers
Treat problem-lovers the same:
A woman says “I’m bored,” and the man
Says “go play a video game.”
Now if the woman obeys him
She’ll prob’ly no longer be bored
And thus need another discomfort
Until her drama-quota’s restored,
So the man has given a solution
Which really won’t help her a bit
So she says “you don’t understand me!”
And runs off and calls him a git.
The man is confused by her answer
But has a solution to that:
He says to himself “bitch be crazy”
And then changes the sink in his flat.
So men, if you want to help women
Be happy then here’s what to do:
Have lots of flaws in your character
So she’ll always have drama with you.
And women, you know how to please a man
And don’t need advising from me,
But (as a man I must say this)
Without drama how happy you’ll be!
Filed under Poems
I remember yesterday
When to look at someone was okay,
When an elbow or a shoulder touch
Didn’t mean nearly so much.
I remember yesterday
When a compliment would make her day,
When “you look nice” was not a slur
When casually said by him to her.
I remember yesterday
When a man held doors and asked to pay,
When a bit of gentle care
Was not met with a dour glare.
I remember yesterday
When a guy could idly say
“What’s your number?” and not fear
Her screaming “rape” for all to hear.
So if you remember yesterday
In the aforementioned way
And know its loss would lead to sorrow
Let’s keep the past in mind tomorrow.
Filed under Poems
Sharp and cold’s the flashing rain
Upon my black umbrella
Which I relinquish happily
Unto my new love, Stella.
Now her springtime golden tress
Is dry as my nervous mouth
For my journey takes me northward
While she vacantly looks south.
I stammer “what’s your number?”
As an adolescent might,
And I’ll never forget her eyes,
Dark blue just like the night.
“First you give me this thing,”
She says towards my umbrella,
“Then follow me for blocks
“Like I’m some sort of Cinderella?
“I won’t give you my number
“And I beg you, leave me be!”
Then she closed my umbrella
And thrust it into me.
And in that painful moment,
Twice breathless made am I
For my heart says “Dude, she saw you!”
Though my gut tells me to cry.
Thus as my tears join eagerly
The gutter’s growing moat
I wish her path be free of puddles
For I cannot lay down my coat.
Filed under Poems
The Daily Travesty 