Honestly, the most American sport
That no one’s thought of yet
Would have to be drunk NASCAR
(Or its equivalent)
Where the racers have to drink
A bunch if whiskey sours
Until they cannot walk, and then
Turn left for several hours.
It’s a last-man-standing race
That proves, HD and live,
That it is not a good idea
For one to drink and drive,
And yet some kids will spend their lives
Trying to be a pro.
Years later, in Utopia,
We’ll ask, “Where’d the dummies go?”
Filed under Poems
See spot run.
Spot runs fast
Because if Spot
Comes in last
Spot will lose
His family’s approval
Which will lead, in relation
To his house, his removal.
Spot enjoys
Not living on the street
So Spot runs fast.
Of foot, he is fleet.
Spot comes in second
Which Jane thinks is slick.
Alas, Spot’s owner
Is a Dick.
Filed under Poems
I broke my all time record
In the 100 meter dash.
I was a wild jungle cat,
And faster than the flash,
And yet I came in second place
‘Cause I misunderstood the rules.
That’s why I ran a 5K
In a minute thirty-two.
Filed under Poems
Her pulse quickened,
Her face blushed,
As the huskies ran
And the drivers mushed.
And as they raced
Under skies of blue
She envied them so
And her heart raced too.
Alas, she was employed
In a sled pulling occupation,
At the head of Santa’s flying pack
Giving gifts across the nation.
And so when Rudolph came along
And usurped her lofty place,
No one could explain her smile
Until she left to join the race.
Filed under Poems
The Daily Travesty 