it was just-Spring!
but now the world is mildew-lascivious
while the goat-loined Art Man goes
whimpering far and wee
at last my love I've whacked the weeds
and stained my jeans up to the knees
I'll try some Shout to get it out
I don't think it will be easy
green jeans are my delight
green jeans are my heart of gold
green jeans are all my joy
but I need a new pair of levi's
My alarm clock went off at three thirty
And I wanted to scream something dirty
But the family was sleeping
So silently creeping
I left but my thoughts were not purty
Then I hiked down the hill 'bout a mile
Where I sat at the bus stop some while
It was cold, dark and wet
My bus hadn't come yet
And my thoughts grew increasingly vile
When I got to work I checked the phone
Heard excuses, some snuffles, a groan
Everyone called in sick
I'm one pathetic prick
No shit, Sherlock, you're fucking alone
So tomorrow I might just play hooky
Stay in bed, maybe get me some nooky
Though the wife ain't so yearning
When I ain't wage-earning
She'll say no touchie, Cookie, just lookie
By the power of the OED
Its authority vested in me
I would hereby upon you confer
When both first person and singular
The permission to use the word "ain't"
Yes, without ungrammatical taint
Aren't you glad and oh, isn't it fine?
Cross my heart, hope to die, I ain't lyin'
THANK YOU, MOLLY
She said 'You pun as bad as he'
But as I see it, all of we
Deserve such pun-ishment
WHAT WAS HE THINKING?
If I got paid for growing hair, I'd be a wealthy sod
Back and chest and nose and toes and other places odd
When I get to the Gates of Pearl, a question I've for God:
"Eyebrows?!? Intelligent Design or were You on the nod?"
WITH APOLOGIES TO SHAKESPEARE, NIETZCHE AND EVERYONE ELSE
I'd like to share a story and the lesson that it teaches
Grams sent me to the cellar once to fetch a jar of peaches
When I get there to my despair I find it out of reach is
But "Necessity's a mother" (I believe that's Frederich Nietzche's)
I start to climb and find that I'm with shelving over-toppling
With creamy corn and pickled beets, hermetic lids unpoppling
Much busted glass, Grams whoops my ass when she is finished moppling
The promised lesson? But you'll wish that I was sooner stoppling
The moral then if you've not by now sussed it for yourselves
"The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our jars but in our shelves"
'twixt his ears it's so spacious
there's room for all kinds of weird shit
If he weren't so 'umble
"the 'umblest" he mumbles
he'd be an insufferabler twit
BUT IN THE END
But in the end,
One tires of the envious and admiring glares of
Bumper-to-bumpered commuters as one
Flies past in the Poets Only Lane on the freeway
One tires of the altogether-too-frequent and
Always empty sex with rhyme-besotted groupies
One tires of the sweet but cloying flavor of the
Muse's milk ever poetasted on one's tongue and
One decides to turn one's pen and one's ear to
More prosaic pursuits
...but it's good!
The taste of crow (I ought to know) is strictly for the birds
And humble pie (don't ask me why) is redolent of turds
But there's nothing so cloying (not to mention annoying)
As the flavor of one's own words...