Tasting Danger
She made us cocktails, bright and cold and brilliantly tasty
And nearly great enough to save all humankind,
Though possibly we could, in slurping them, have been less hasty,
For Thursday, carelessly it seems, she lost her mind.
Call Me Crazy
Oliver doesn’t like olives
And Mary thinks marrying’s odd
And Colton’s allergic to horses
Divina believes in no god
And don’t get me started on Philpott
And Sunshine and Robin and Mame
‘Cause whatever their parents were thinking
They didn’t think What’s in a Name
If you can’t make a grand entrance, at least try to make a spectacular exit . . .
Talk about Relief!
The way my insurance is freighted
With small-print and guilt, and prorated,
I find that this chick
Who can’t risk being sick
Can afford to be
Decapitated.
Campfire Song for the Unwitting Centerpiece
Singing silly campfire songs, we sit at either side
Across the pit and toast marshmallows, making note how wide
And high the flames can leap at will, and thinking if they might
Be quite sufficiently stoked up by middle of the night
To throw something substantial in to roast before the dawn,
Perhaps a certain someone here we’ve finally settled on,
Whose camp-songs so annoy us; cook to ash before next day
Our deep-disliked camp counselor: our own auto-da-fé.
Why, certainly, cabin-master, Sir, have another toasted marshmallow! Here, just lean over a teensy little bit closer . . .
Art-Colored Glasses 