Nobody knows the journey of a cat:
Where they go or what they do,
What secret groves within they sat
Or fearsome vermin that they slew.
No one knows the lives they’ve saved
And the worlds they lost in vain.
Such is the mystery of the cat;
Both majesty and pain.
Filed under Poems
They say white men can’t dunk
But neither can a skunk.
Checkmate, punk…
Or so I thunk.
Turns out a chunk
Of white guys don’t stunk
But make the backboard clunk.
Word.
Filed under Poems
Cars and sports and guns and sports
And balls and boobs and mustard:
These (plus sports) are what guys like;
Other stuff makes them flustered.
I would write another poem
About what women like too
But they just can’t even anymore
And if you don’t know, they won’t tell you.
Filed under Poems
Somebody’s been murdered!
Their corpse was found today
And all the head detectives
Are off on holiday.
The backup sleuths are gumshoing
Where the corpses spine met cutlery
And I’m here, full of regret
At my choice to take up butlery…
Filed under Poems
Bowling balls are very hard
And also very round.
When they strike the bowling line
They make a smacky sound,
And when the balls crash into all
The pretty pear-shaped pins
The guy who threw the ball says “whee”
And everybody grins.
Bowling balls have lots of holes
To slide onto your fingers
And when the game is over with
The happy feeling lingers.
You have to wear some public shoes
But that’s okay, I guess.
Bowling’s basically like sex
But doesn’t make a mess!
Filed under Poems
Happy happy happy.
Joy joy joy.
Yippee yippee yippee.
Oh boy oh boy oh boy.
I can’t wait. I’m excited.
I’m overwhelmed with wow.
If you think exclamation marks are dumb
You do not think so now.
Filed under Poems
A silver goose on a crystal lake
Locks eyes with me at dawn
And ‘neath the sunrise orange it spake
And pooped upon my lawn.
Silver goose, an anarchist
Would soon my rifle eat…
Though I aimed wide, I will not miss
When next our twain shall meet.
Filed under Poems
Textured washcloth in a pastel color,
I love how my skin you exfoliate.
You make my oily skin look so duller;
For your great glory, I extoll ye, mate!
When I am lonely and in a great need
Of very crude and masculine release
I need no manual to for to read
To help you bring me to a restful peace.
You cost so little, less than fifty cents
And you loyally last my whole life long;
Textured pastel washcloth, I ask you whence
Did you become so grand, forever strong?
You are more than just a cheap toiletry;
You, my washcloth, are the best part of me!
Filed under Poems
I think on behalf of those born between
Late June and late July
We need to recognize their pain
And ask the question why
Their star sign is a great disease
(And a pretty boring fish).
I think the other stat signs
Should be diseases too. I wish
That some day in the future
Someone will die of Libra
And we’ll recognize that Cancer
Is a constellation of a zebra.
Filed under Poems
I asked how hot the weather was
On a scale of one to ten,
But apparently that’s boring
So I rephrased and asked again:
“On a scale that starts at Poop
“And goes until my Sadie Sink
“How hot is it?” They said “Satan’s balls”
And now I don’t know what to think…
Filed under Poems
The Daily Travesty 