My Grampa’s Eyes

I have my grampa’s eyes
He’s mad, but that’s the game he chose
I’ll keep my grampa’s eyes
Until he gives me back my nose

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Next Month’s Schedule

I’ll be home for Christmas.
Also, Christmas Eve.
For Nikolaustag, I’m thinking…yes?
(A Thursday, I believe.)

When Hanukkah begins, I’m out–
A concert with the Pops–
But then I’m home without a doubt
Until the oil stops.

I’ll be at home to greet The End
If Mayan Doomsday strikes;
If it doesn’t, I’ll defend
My door from Las Posadas tykes.

I’ll be home for Kwanzaa;
Solstice, too (a.k.a., Yule).
If anybody wants ta
Drop by New Year’s Eve, that’s cool.

I’ll be home for Christmas,
In my dreams and while awake.
I’ll be home for Christmas
Like a cold you just can’t shake.

I’ll be home for Christmas
Like I am ‘most every year.
If you’re not home for Christmas,
Come on by and join me here!

From Hell’s Heart I Stab At Thee (The Musical)

It’s time to put my tap shoes on
And dance-interp The Wrath of Kahn
Or get all old school up in here
And waltz “Ahab Gives Up The Spear.”
The key is, every genre’s classics–
Sci-Fi (Star Trek), pickles (Vlasics),
Even written word (M. Dick)–
Deserve the Broadway sing-song schtick:
“Hugh Jackman stars as Ishmael
In Tommy Tune’s The Great White Whale!
I’d love to see the Times review
The Kirk/Spock ballad, “Many/Few.”
Just think what joy that show would bring–
The chance to hear Khan Noonien Singh:
“From Hell’s heart I stab at thee…”
It’s like he’s crooning right at me!

Nothing Like Us

So I’m standing there, right? And this guy, he walks up
And he’s all, “I need change for the bus.” There’s a cup
In his hand that’s, like, leaking what looks like brown milk
And he’s waving it at me. I’m all, “Dude, that’s silk!
If that gets on my tie I’ll be super P.O.’d!”
He like, stares at me, winks, and then crosses the road
And like, right there in front of me, where I can see,
Buys a newspaper, only he pulls out, like, three!
Then he sits on a curb and he pulls them apart
And he folds World News so it looks like a cart
And then Sports is a donkey. He rolls up the Weather
Page tight like a harness of black-and-white leather
And next thing you know there’s a church with a steeple!
And then the guy’s, like, all surrounded by people
Who’re all, “How’d you do that?” “Hey, make one for me!”
And he sells them all! Newspapers one, two and three!
Then he crosses the street with the cash in his fist
And he passes right by me. I’m majorly pissed,
And I yell, all sarcastic, “Dude! Don’t miss your bus!”
And he winks! Freakin’ artists. They’re nothing like us.

No Leftovers

I’m sifting through iambic slag
And wordsherds from my discard bag
In hopes I’ll find a fragmentary
Chunk of couplet that could carry
Me until my inspiration’s
Back from turkey-day vacation

All the rhymes I’d hoped I had
As backups, though, sound just as bad
Today as when I tossed them first
And now that verse has come to worst
They haven’t aged so much as rotted
And are likely best forgotted

Mullipoetrigatawny
Verse requires more than scrawny
Half-baked metaphors and flimsy
Flights of not-so-fancy whimsy
Lest it leave an aftertaste
Of semilliterary waste

Cupboard’s nearly bare? That’s when you
Stop, re-think, and shrink the menu:
Here’s poetic processed cheese
And freezer-burned tortilla–please
Subsist on this word quesadilla
‘Til my muse returns. ‘Kay, see ‘ya.

It’s A Choice

Everything I do is wrong.
To do what’s right just takes too long.
If I could do right from my chair
I might…but then there’s laissez faire.
Take a tip from Doris D.:
Que sera, sera, said she.
If it’s gonna be, I’ll let it.
If it’s wrong? Oh, well. Forget it.
All it takes for Good to lose
Is people choosing not to choose.
I’ve earned my place in Evil’s heart
By choosing not to do my part.
I’m not proud, don’t get me wrong.
Or, do. Explaining takes too long.