Little to Say, and All the Time in the World to Say It
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Tag Archives: silliness
Competitive Edginess
Who really wins or loses when there’s a competition of sorts in hand? Seems there’s usually ample opportunity for both sides to get the better of each other, and even more so, for both to end up battered and belittled by the ordeal. I’m all for battling against one’s own failings and worst characteristics, but by George, I’d rather not have anyone else taking advantage of my myriad weaknesses. I feel a certain–possibly smug–contentment right here on the sidelines, watching all of the other snarling and smirking dupes work themselves into a froth by attempting to best each other all the time, knowing as I do that as long as it is a competition, somebody’s bound to come out on the bottom of the stack.
Join Me for Dinner
The beast that ate the hunting dogs
Was fatter than a hundred hogs
But oddly still was hungry when
The hunters chased him down again
So dinnertime—you’ll be delighted—
Found dogs and masters reunited.
Whistle a Happy Tune & Sit in the Catbird Seat
About six million starlings
Roosting on the overpass
May pass the evening pleasantly
By dumping on the grass
While singing chirpy little tunes
Of evening’s charming cheer,
But just remember their first task
If you should drive too near.
Their cat companions lie in wait,
Meanwhile, beneath your couch;
When you come home, they like to roam
Right in your path, then crouch,
Paws up, complaining with a scream
If you should chance to trip
Upon their fine reclining place;
They’ll fly right off to rip
That couch to ribbons, smithereens,
On this remote pretext,
And if you scold or turn them cold,
They’ll turn and rip you next.
Don’t Kowtow to Cowardice
Moo-Hoo
From Farmer Burgess I acquired
A fear unnaturally inspired,
Of eggplant-colored legs and ears
And grape-juice tinted moping tears;
I’ve long since feared becoming plum,
A hue to make a heifer glum,
And so have kept a watchful eye
Lest it occur; suddenly, I–
I saw a purple cow, I think,
Hoped not to be one; in a wink,
I was the most extraordinary
Bovine in the Violet Dairy!
But weep no wine-inflected drops
When you hear cloven clip’ty-clops
As I approach, for I inspired
A soda jerk ere I retired,
And am remembered better now
Than when I was a Normal cow.
He Cracked a Wicked Little Smile . . .
. . . as he was hatching his plots . . .
Quack Quack, Etc.
There’s nothing adverse
That I throw in the sauce
As I start to rehearse
The demise of the Boss
But as I descend
To the end of the day
It’s more tough to pretend
To be lightsome and gay
When I feel in my marrow
The building of rages
Brought on by the narrow-
Ness by which he gauges
My quest for perfection
In service to him
Whose extreme predilection
For being quite grim
As you guess is a needle
To nag and annoy
Like the high nasal wheedle
Of a self-centered boy
Until something explodes
In the back of my brain
At some one of his goads
And I go quite insane
So I must kill him gladly
By end of the day
And go off quacking madly
As I’m carted away
Pirates of All Sorts
Always Someone Else’s Problem
‘Twas the pirate Rumbustious Rudy
Who felt it his life’s work and duty
To divest someone’s self of his piffling pelf
And retain the remainder as booty.
Of Dire Days and Nebulous Nights
Missing You
The kettle on the hob is hissing
Without cease, for Kettie’s missing—
She dashed out to check the door
And hasn’t come back anymore;
Although we saw a pair of shoes
And stockinged legs amid the ooze,
Heels up, in yon green murky swamp,
We dasn’t get our own shoes damp
By plunging toward her in the rough
Glutinous muck, and soon enough
The heels stopped kicking anyhow.
No one will come for coffee now,
For though ‘twas us stood at her door,
She slipped; shan’t visit anymore.
Slightly Bent
Emmylou and Louie went
To town together long ago—
They went to town, for all we know;
Although they both were slightly bent,
We think they just went off to town,
Not that they were bumped off, ambushed,
Stabbed, poisoned, or shot down;
But given they were slightly bent,
Our finding them quite stone cold dead
Was not a shock, it must be said,
So we’re not certain where they went
Or what they did or what it meant
Or whether in the town or out,
Or if some others were about
That had a slightly different bent,
But anyway, the two are dead,
Both of them, Emmylou and Louie,
And lest I should become all gooey,
That’s the whole that need be said.
Rowdy Rascals Rollicking
Slouch a Mile in My Pajamas
A post made in loving tribute to all of my fellow hippies, slackers, boulevardiers, and couch potatoes. Yes, I can get the job done–if I really have to–but I’d much rather rest on my laurels Barcalounger, thank you very much. Join me, won’t you?
In Other Dimensions and full of Dementia
Where Carryings-on could Lead to Carrion
Saturday Night Study Group
Lo, the lazy morning passes,
Finds the weary lads and lasses
Still abed, or on their asses,
Half awake and half a-snore,
‘Mid detritus of the pizza,
Hot wings, chips and other treats a
Sober student seldom eats, a-
Strewn in heaps upon the floor–
Partied late; what was it for?
Shattering the blissful quiet
Suddenly, a loud impiety
Is screamed and starts a riot
Right among the corpse-like corps:
All a-scramble, grabbing trousers,
Shirts and shoes, these late carousers
Start remembering the wowsers
Of the night they’d passed before,
Though recall was rather poor–
Finally, wakening more fully,
One of them, if somewhat dully,
Crawled across, his brain still woolly,
To fling wide the knocked-on door
And reveal the dawning horror
Come to waken every snorer,
Standing, looking faintly, more or
Less, like someone seen before–
Somehow shook him to the core–
Ay! It’s Mother stands there staring,
Arms akimbo, nostrils flaring,
Challenging his story, daring
Him amain: Explain this war!
What’s this wreckage, who these bodies
Strewn among the butts and toddies,
Some dressed only in their naughties,
Covered all in festive gore?
He stood gawping, nothing more.
In the cursèd silence stretching,
From a distance came a retching
Sound and instantly, all fetching
Up as though a manticore
Chased them out of their reclining,
They responded to this shining
Call and left the poor repining
Lad, with Mother, at the door,
Beast and trembling matador.
Dust now settling, son and mother
Gazed intently on each other,
Understood this bit of bother
Must be rectified, the score
Evened out: this was the chore.
Mother, calm now and quite cool,
Explains to him that, while in school,
Her son shall still observe the rule
Of sober thought. The lad’s encore:
Will I party? Nevermore!
(And means well, just as before.)
Art-Colored Glasses 