For Ripley, a beloved pain in my ass
I wish I had a pair of hands,
So, I could just express my glands.
I’m having some intensive gas,
I need someone to squeeze my ass.
I’ve had my usual daily poo,
But I fear my glands are filled with goo.
It’s time to go and see the vet.
Don’t squeeze too hard, or you’ll get wet.
The vet will never do the job,
Vet techs have to squeeze out the glob.
My butt is clean as a whistle,
Next time, I’ll sit on Mommy’s Bissell.
To the tune of “My Bonnie”
My colon is long as the ocean,
My colon is wide as the sea.
They’re sticking a scope in my colon,
It’s called “colonoscopy.”
Another day,
Another flood.
— God
I will build a 100-cubit Ark
In the yard behind my house.
It holds my four fixed dogs
And my pre-menopausal spouse.
We will fill it with supplies,
Dog treats, my coffee and her tea.
We’ll watch the rain waters rise.
Then, it’s down the Trinity.
When we reach the Gulf,
Take a right to Cozumel.
I should have brought a shovel.
Whatever is that smell?
Forty days and nights of sailing.
It’s our longest-ever cruise.
We’ll even have the puppies.
What do we have to lose?
When the flooding does recede,
We’ll recover from the strife.
We can’t rebuild the world,
So, we’ll have a quiet life.
“Let’s go up!”, she had said.
“It’s good for your head.”
“It will help bring you closer to God.”
The ride up was fine,
It took almost no time.
Then she said, “We get to climb down.”
As she started ahead,
I had a feeling of dread.
I followed her down the way.
On the eighth step, I tripped.
I supposed I just slipped.
I fell forward, and landed head first.
I’ve been stuck in this tower,
For well over an hour.
Nobody’s coming to help.
I’ve screamed and prayed,
Tourists behind seem dismayed,
And the line is growing in length.
The tower’s elite
Grabbed my hands and my feet,
They pulled with all of their might.
No matter how hard they tried,
I’m still stuck inside.
They finally went off to lunch.
So, I’m stuck here on my own,
Wedged into cold stone.
I wonder if I will ever be free.
I’ve been so long stuck,
I learned French and German for “fuck”,
But that hasn’t helped me get down.
I’m pretty sure Gaudi
Did not have an “outie”.
This tower would not be so thin.
He drank wine in liters,
He measured towers in meters,
But my inches just won’t fit at all.
From Paris to Plano,
People are mailing in Drano.
At least the public is trying to help.
I awoke with a scream,
It was all just a bad dream.
I will plan our vacations alone.
Every night when I pray,
I give thanks for the day.
I ask for forgiveness of sin.
Then, I say “For twenty-four hours”,
“Lord, protect me from towers.”
Then, I can go off to sleep.
Thirty days hath September,
April, June and November.
Thirty days hath NaPoWriMo.
Thirty poems is a lot.
Thirty good poems may be a bit much to ask.
I may have to go edit a few,
To make them more coherent.
Some, to make them coherent at all.
Thirty has one more meaning.
For the press (old school),
You will see -30- in articles.
It means “The End.”
-30-
(see you next year, or when the fever strikes.)
Atlantic Crossing.
Last day sailing all alone.
The Med tomorrow.
There once was a woman named Flo,
At sea, she was willing to go.
While back on dry land,
She charged half a grand,
And the sailors all called her Land Ho.
I will write a poem every day.
Unless I have nothing to say.
Then, I have to write free verse.
Or haiku, sonnets or even worse.
So, I have to have a decent thought.
Or all this scribbling is for naught.
My thoughts of past were very bold.
They’re all gone now. I’m very old.