Abdication Zone

I’m in the Abdication Zone!
My time, from now, is all my own
(At least until tomorrow’s dawn).
For now my mandates all are gone:
I’ve written what I said I’d write;
I’ve studied what I should tonight;
The people I’d agreed to meet
Have all been met. I ought to eat
But if I dawdle and forget
And sleep instead, that’s better yet!
I’ll wake refreshed with plans in place:
Go brush your teeth, then stuff your face.
That should start the weekend brightly!
Either way, I’m finished. Nightly!


The bucket wasn’t on my head
When I woke up. Did someone dead,
In dying, for their final trick
Remove my headgear with a kick?
I’d placed my face inside the pail
For privacy, to no avail,
Apparently, ’cause here I lie
With cheeks and chin exposed to sky
And every freckle, mole and pore
Like crime scene tape across a door
Inviting passers-by to stare
And wonder, God, what happened there?
My bucket shields me from attack
And ridicule. I want it back.


It’s tough to watch the news these days.
Seems everyone we’d thought to praise
On Saturday, by Tuesday morning’s
Featured in the Creepo Warnings
That now merit brief reports
On every newscast: Traffic, Sports,
The Weather, and Misogyny.
It can’t be only on T.V.
Behind the eyes within this room
Surprises hide and crises loom
But I know how to deal with that:
Deny, and lie, and blame the cat.

Cows Wear TrollPants: The Book

I write a lot. I don’t know why.
Some friends and family asked that I
Start posting what I wrote so they
Could read it, and I said, okay.
Without intending to have done so,
Suddenly a streak’d begun, so
I kept writing something new
And posting it right here for you
And anyone who wandered by
To read, and that’s as much as I
Have ever managed, then ’til now,
Promotion-wise: I don’t know how
And lack the energy to learn
And so it’s easier to spurn
The siren call of wealth and fame
And groupies who tattoo my name
On their appendix scars and such–
Perhaps that doesn’t happen much,
But lying low (and being lazy)
Means I won’t be driven crazy
By my popularity,
And all my time is Time For Me.
At least, it was. That ends today!
My son and daughter clawed their way
Through several hundred early posts
On TrollPants2 and culled the most
Egregious of the self-indulgent
Blather, dragged the few effulgent
Rhymes from my vast, ragged heap
Of things I wrote so I could sleep
And cobbled them into a book
Called Cows Wear TrollPants. Take a look!
My son, who draws for Tumble Leaf,
Provides some visual relief
From all those silly words of mine;
My daughter did the book design,
Which means her fancy art degree
Is paying off! (At least for me.)
I’ve tried my hand at sales before
And ran the gamut, Bad to Poor,
So should a single copy sell
I’ll think I’m doing really well!
But if you’d like a copy of
My book, please click the link above
And order one, and if you do,
And like it, I’ll compose for you
A special TrollPants thank-you poem
Show it off and say, “I know him!”
Someday–who can say?–it could
Be worthless!
Silliness is good.