Sour has its power, true,
But sweetness fills its cheeks with you.
When sweet goes out to eat, dessert
Is you! I hope it doesn’t hurt
Too much to have your face licked off.
Your fault–you filled my sweetness trough
With floating, chunky lumps o’ you!
Resisting it’s too hard to do,
Especially when I don’t try.
I’m just a sweetness-loving guy.

There, Kitty-Kitty!

The cat on my chest doesn’t want to be here;
She’s drawn to the two danderphobes sitting near.
On most days she’s fine pinking veins in my eyes
But she sees that my sneezes pale next to these guys’.
How does she come by this knowledge? No clue.
But believe it: If you hate my cat, she loves you.

The Tansy Verses: No. 15

Tuesday’s child, so I’ve heard,
Is full of grace, so it’s absurd
To see you mope and hang your head
Like woeful Wednesday’s child instead.
You’re fair of face–a Monday trait–
But you were born a day too late
To earn that appellation. So
Is that how come you’re full of woe?
November 4th, when you were whelped,
Was Tuesday, so it can’t be helped:
The die is cast, so goodness gracious,
Reach down deep in your capacious
Pocket for a Brownie smile.
Let’s wipe out that frown awhile!
Sure, it’s Thursday, and I’m leaving
Friday next, but if you’re grieving
Starting now you’re going to get
Cheek wrinkles from eight days of wet.
Cheer up! You won’t regret you did:
You’re third from top of my stack, kid.

The Tansy Verses: No. 12

I hear you pacing overhead–
Your floor’s the ceiling o’er my bed–
And wonder, do you ever sleep?
What puzzles plague you? Won’t they keep?
It’s clear you’re not obsessing on
The fact that next week I’ll be gone,
Or you’d have mentioned something, right?
So what, then, keeps you up at night?
Your hotel project’s going poorly;
Maybe that’s why you’re so squirrely?
Nicotine and whiskey jags
Might force your eyes to pack their bags
As I’ve been packing mine, and yet
I haven’t smelled it in your sweat.
What makes you make nocturnal tracks? Is
It to do with income taxes?
Diet? Politics? I weep
For both of us, ’cause I need sleep!
Your pain is one I can’t ignore–
Hey, who designed your squeaky floor?
Oh, you! That’s right. I clean forgot!
As dust rains down upon my cot.
At least reroute your pacing path
To over Axel’s bed or bath,
Or, here’s another thought: Lie down!
Eight days until I blow this town….

The Tansy Verses: No. 11

It’s not my fault! You can’t blame me.
They love me on D.C. TV.
Okay, I aced the Nielsen test,
Which said midwestern babes are best
For mid-Atlantic weathercasters.
Who am I to spite the masters?
They insist they need me, so
I’m moving east! I’ll miss you, though.
Here’s one last forecast, just for you:
A long, cold, dry spell. Toodle-oo!

The Tansy Verses: No. 10

Hey, Birthday Boy! You want a pony?
Know what’s better? Macaroni!
I’d composed a birthday ballad
For you, then I saw this salad!
Gallon tubs of elbowed joy!
Who’s a happy Birthday Boy?
Celery and mayonnaise
With tiny bits of crunchy peppers
Always earns the sort of praise
That Jesus heard from hopeful lepers
And that Nixon’s Cuban crew
Did not receive…and all for you!
Macaroni salad? Gee,
You hit the jackpot, dating me!
What, were you expecting sex?
Too bad. I don’t do architects.
But twisty tubes of processed wheat
With mayo? That’s your birthday treat!