If you grew a six-foot long beard
You’d probably think it was weird
But after a while
You’d probably smile
And think “This ain’t as bad as I feared.”
And if a six-foot beard grew you
It would not know what to do
Because shaving’s a pain
And beards don’t have a brain.
These dilemmas are why I’m not a jew.
If you took the Bible
And replaced the words “Mommy, look!”
With “I like to eat babies”
You’d have the very same book.
The same can be said for “Croissant,”
And “Wherefore art thou Juliet.”
I find it quite surprising
No one’s written a thesis on this yet.
Being human is great
But the best thing to be
(According to me)
Is the inside part
Of the roof of a home
‘Cause you aren’t at all sentient
And people leave you alone.
There aren’t very many
Who do not have any.
There’s a few who have fewer than ten.
But if you meet the ten-plussers
Who seem proud and aren’t fussers
They are almost certainly men.
“Cyber chickens do not deserve Yolanda”
Was the first thought to pop into my head
When I sat down to write today’s poem
After exiting my way-too-comfy bed.
I don’t know the meaning of that musing
And likely it has no meaning at all
But if you are Yolanda do not settle
For a cyber chicken who isn’t on the ball.
Peter picked a peck of pickled peppers.
It seemed to him the decent thing to do,
Then sweated sweetly with some swarthy schleppers
To schlep the peppers way back home to you.
But you, alas, had since left for the seashore
To sell your silly seashells I don’t doubt.
So I went to the park to soothe our offspring.
Didn’t give tidy teeter-totter daughters time to pout.
But somewhere in my heart I felt a tugging…
The tongue-tied tugging you and Jack know well.
I hope it goes away as I fetch water.
But oops! I tripped or slipped. Jill? What the hell?
I think that in a former life
I was a block of wood
Because I like to do nothing
While smelling sort of good,
I’d be hurt if hit by a chainsaw
And I’m warm when set on fire.
My dream is to one day be famous
So next life I’ll be a Goodyear tire