Sunday, November 30, 2008

Season's Greetings






I'll be home for Christmas;
I can't afford to go
anywhere that's warmer
and lacks a foot of snow.
The radio is blaring
those shop-worn Xmas tunes,
shriveling my goodwill
into a heap of prunes.
I'm getting awful tired
of all those silver bells,
crooning about sleigh rides
my ear drums greatly swells.
Rudolph, take your red nose
and stick it you-know-where;
Frosty, I've a blow torch
to part your snowy hair.
Yodeling of Santa
won't make me a good boy,
not when it's repeated
in volumes that annoy.
Elvis singing carols
is not much of a treat;
I am now allergic
to the Nutcracker Suite.
Christmas would be better,
the Season would be bright,
if we had less clamor
and much more Silent Night.


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Friday, November 28, 2008

The Fruitcake






Fruitcakes are a marvel
of the baker's mystic art;
full of so much candied fruit,
they never fall apart.
Instead they harden with the years
into a solid brick
that no one ever slices;
all you do is take a lick.
They're passed down in a family
like some damaged DNA --
a dirty little secret
on this happy Holiday.
Should ever you recieve one
do not panic but be quick
to soak it in hard liquor
and insert a candle wick.
Then put it in the attic
'til the next Fourth of July,
when carefully you light it
and bright fireworks let fly.


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Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Saving Spree






Black Friday when you're shopping
remember that the stores
have even fewer scruples
than cruising back-street whores.
For every sale they offer,
for every Red Tag price,
you're paying at the double
or maybe even thrice.
They'll say returns are easy
if you're not satisfied.
If you believe their twaddle,
your brains are fluffed & dried.
So stay home, watching football,
or grab a DVD.
Surprise yourself by going
on a saving spree.
 



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The More Things Change . . .






Take another loan out.
Get another credit card.
The Feds will reassure you
that it isn't very hard.
They're bailing out the banks
that want you staying deep in debt.
The thought of thrift or savings
is viewed as financial threat.
Debtors make good citizens,
so spend more than you earn . . .
doesn't that sound like a tale
composed by old Jules Verne?



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Spike Jones






There used to be Bing Crosby,
Perry Como, and their clones.
But if you wanted song unique
you had to hear Spike Jones.
A hepcat with a chainsaw,
he would mow down the Top Ten,
then play a set of 'Chopsticks'
on the chimes of staid Big Ben.
His trombones squirted water
and his french horns were kazoos.
And what he did to classics
made Stokowski blow a fuse!
He took each note and twisted
it into a pretzel shape.
He took all stuffy music
and did crush it like a grape.
This maniac did flourish
when the zoot suit was in style;
the generation after
was reduced to Gomer Pyle.
So when the grandkids tease you
for your lack of comic view,
just sit back and remember
you had Spike's "Cocktails for Two".


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Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Nantucket






"Nantucket", when used in a verse,
will always draw snickers, or worse --
the obvious mind
does think it's a kind
of prelude for some horrid curse.



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Obama's Got a Job for Me!






Obama's got a job for me!
He said so yesterday.
It comes with many benefits
and lots of crisp green pay.
The healthcare is completely free.
No boss will be in sight.
My meals are all provided,
even pizza late at night.
The hours will be flexible,
no weekends are required.
I can take vacations, paid,
whnever I am tired.
I don't know what my job involves;
perhaps some supervising.
Or maybe I'l just jet around,
the corporate world advising.
Obama's got a job for me,
as sure as God made Slackers --
possibly I'll be the coach
of the Green Bay Packers!


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Only in the Movies






In movies you can always park
wherever fancy takes you;
in real life when you park amiss
the traffic court sure rakes you.
The fines grow steeper every year,
there seems to be no topper
until they have reduced you to
the status of a pauper.
The downtown curbs are jammed with cars
immobile as a boulder;
parking lots will only give
out with the same cold shoulder.
And if somehow you find a spot
through luck and chance too strange,
the meter grins at you because
you haven't any change.



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Monday, November 24, 2008

Reflections on a Fishbowl






A goldfish in a bowl
will rarely have a goal.
It's room and board is set.
Fears nothing but a net.
No clothing does it need.
It follows no known creed.
In politics is bland;
will always vote for sand.
Cannot be made to see
its part in history.
Prefers to drift along,
no thought of right or wrong.
Won't even have a name,
rejects all earthly fame.
And on its final wave,
the toilet is its grave.
A voiceless glint of light
for pleasure in our sight.
I wonder if we too
are put on cosmic view.
Oh wouldn't it be droll
if Earth were a fishbowl!


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Cabinet of Rivals






I wonder if Obama
has a clue about his fate
if he appoints old Hillary
to run affairs of State?
She might declare a war or two
behind his skinny back
and send in the Marines
upon excuses pretty slack.
He husband at State dinners
will undoubtedly inflame
passions of resentment
as he ogles every dame.
Lincoln had his cabinet
of rivals, it is true --
but they knew he could whup 'em
anytime all black & blue!



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What Lasts Forever






When the earth shall wear away
and time itself shall stop,
when cities crumble in decay
and every mountain top
is leveled with the shifting sands
and life survives in nooks --
somewhere still will be a stack
of Reader's Digest Condensed Books.


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Sunday, November 23, 2008

Keys






I used to have a pocket
full of awkward metal keys.
They poked me in odd places
and produced strange melodies.
They bulged and ripped the fabric
of my trousers all the time,
so spare change poured out of me,
every nickel, penny, dime!
And if I dumped them in a bowl
or handy dresser drawer
I'd forget where I had put them
and go searching evermore.
Now everything's 'lectronic
and you have to know the code;
which means I can't remember
how to get in my abode!


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Saturday, November 22, 2008

Kleenex






The kleenex is a mighty sheet,
cuz when you go "kerchoo!"
it hides your germs and snot away
so none of it I view.
And then you toss it daintily
into a trash container;
even college students should
see that is a no-brainer.
Some folks prefer to use TP
but I think that is crass;
because, my dear, that is the stuff
you use to wipe your ass.
Still others wipe upon their sleeve
or hawk and spit away;
concertos on their sinuses
I sure would like to play.
Of course, there is the handkerchief,
that lamest Christmas gift;
it's nothing but a booger vault-
let's make 'em all go "pffft!"
Yes, kleenex is the only thing
to quell a winter sneeze,
but if you use the same one twice
don't shake hands with me -- Please!


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Hand Lotion






In wintertime my skin does crack;
essential moisture it does lack.
And so I put goo on my hands
to make them soft as rubber bands,
or rubber binders, take your pick;
the upshot is my hands are slick
and smell of lavender and mint
and pick up lots of dust and lint,
which makes me rub them on my shirt.
(I'm glad that plaid does not show dirt.)
And when I try the pickle jar
my slippery digits don't get far.
Am I to starve 'til help arrives
from several drops of smooth St. Ives?



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Friday, November 21, 2008

Resealable






The package says "resealable"
but whether ham or peas
when you try to snap it shut
it brings you to your knees.
The line turns red -- or is it blue --
the bag turns inside out;
the contents fall upon the floor
and seep into the grout.
"Resealable."  Oh, what a crock!
It's messy and unsure.
To every maker of such frauds
my only comment:  "Grrr!"
'Tween promise and performance
there is such a giant gap
that I am now reverting
back to good old Handiwrap!
 



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The Pilgrim Fathers






The Pilgrims were a solemn band
who had no thought of paying
for the land on which they built
their churches for long praying.
They said that God had given them
this land of milk and honey.
Besides, the savages they found
had no use for their money.
The Pilgrims starved until their hosts
gave them some tips on farming
and in return the Pilgrims preached
a God who was alarming.
Today the Pilgrim churches stand
as empty as their pockets,
while Indian casinos have
attendance that skyrockets.



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Thursday, November 20, 2008

Yes, Virginia, etc . . .






Virginia asked, long years ago,
if Santa Claus were real.
And in reply newspapers said:
"It's all in how you feel."
Her question still is pertinent
and so I do reply:
The jolly fat man lives and breathes,
but not for us small fry.
A Santa Claus exists for those
who fly in private jets,
who gambled on the stock market
and can't pay off their debts.
St Nick is real for Scrooges who,
to feed the bottom line,
lay off their best employees and
on pension plans do dine.
Santa Claus exists inside the
heart of every miser
who hides behind his offshore bank
and his tax advisor.
Virginia, you and I can't count
on Santa Claus to come.
If we are not large companies
he treats us like a bum.
Without a golden parachute
or stock options galore,
old Santa has his reindeer kick
us all around the floor.
He takes away our candy canes
and doesn't give a damn.
That is because, Virginia, he
is really Uncle Sam.
 
 
 



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The Curse






Music lessons were a curse
when I was just a boy.
Our mothers seemed to torture us
with undiluted joy.
They really thought pianos
kept us free from gangs and crime
and with much application
we might make the real Big Time.
We'd start a game of dodgeball
in the alley on the sly,
only to be ambushed
by that awful mother's cry:
"Come to the piano!"
"Why must you always roam?"
"I've got your lesson book right here,"
"with brand-new metronome!"
'Twalonly thirty minutes
but the time slowed to a crawl.
We felt ourselves grow limp inside
like some used-up rag doll.
When at last the chains were struck,
we went outside again
to find the other kids had gone
to watch some Gentle Ben.
And then at the recital
in a shirt that was too tight
we peed our pants while in the wings
from surfeit of stage fright.
Finally in high school
we did make our parents see
we never ever could become
a famous prodigy.
And that is why unto this day
our bowels begin to clench
whenever we approach too close
to a piano bench.


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Shut Up, Michael Moore






Shut up, Michael Moore.
You're such an old bore.
You don't know the score.
You make my ears sore.
Rush Limbaugh, be still.
You're mentally ill.
Go take a pain pill.
We've all had our fill.
Ms Oprah, drop dead.
You live in your head.
You make me see red.
Some weight you should shed.
Jay Leno, too smug.
Do you wear a rug?
Your jokes need a drug.
Your mouth needs a plug.
Judge Judy, for shame.
You're way off your game.
Your rulings are lame.
You're one ugly dame.
Doc Philbert, you stink.
You drive me to drink.
You're over the brink.
You need your own shrink.
What more can I say?
It's been a bad day.
These voices I'll slay.
Oh silence, please stay!


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