C-Dubs The Least-Loved Ranch Hand

There’s Carlson, Whit, Crooks, The Boss, George and Lennie.
There’s Candy and Curly and Slim (’cause he’s skinny).
But do you recall
The most disrespected of all?

C-Dubs, the least-loved ranch hand,
Didn’t even have a name
And everyone who saw her
Would have told you she’s to blame.

All of the other ranch hands
Had a Y beside their X.
Homogametic C-Dubs
Shoulda chose a different sex.

Finding Lennie in the hay,
C-Dubs came to say,
“Kilt your pup? Well, that’s all right.
You kin stroke my hair tonight!”

Oh, how the big lug rubbed it!
‘Til she shouted out, then he
Panicked, and poor old C-Dubs
Was shaken out of his story!

“Floozy,” “jail bait,” “tramp” and “bitch,”
“God damn…lousy tart.”

Steinbeck went to town when he
Vented his misogyny.

He wrote the painter’s daughter
Such an awful, tawdry life,
He must have hated C-Dubs
(Which is short for “Curley’s Wife”).

Quoth St. Stephen

My toenails are an unattractive
Lot, a sad, objective fact of
Which I’m all too well aware.
It’s why my feet are rarely bare
In places squeamish people lurk
Like public markets, church and work.
They’re not all bad–most folks are fine
With viewing seven, eight or nine,
But pupils cheer in Hades when
A witness wincelessly sees ten,
So he who keeps his dinner down
Shall be rewarded with a crown
To wear upon the Feast of Steve
(That’s two days after Christmas Eve);
If no one’s perfect, he who least
Is winceful headlines at the Feast
Of Stephen’s Stoning–(Drugs are wrong!)
To lead the festal folk in song:

Good King Winces Less looked out
On the feets of Stephen
Whilst his toe waved round about,
Cruelly twisted, even….

My Grandfather’s Joke

My grandfather’s clock was too big for the shelf
So he sold it and bought a big shelf.
He’s never on time for appointments. You wait
Or give up and go fetch him yourself.

If I drew you a graph
Of the things that make him laugh
There’d be one big, mysterious dot.
Is it farts?
Something that’s on my face?
“No,” he’ll say,

Is it a bit of cheese?
“It’s not. It’s snot.”
Grandpa, please tell me. Please?
“It’s snot. It’s snot!”

He’ll stop,
And say, “No matter what you think,
“Read my lips:

Trust Me: I’m Lying

You can believe me when I tell you something true
Better be wary, though, when I’m lying to you
Like a good gambler, I work hard to hide my tells
Like a magician, I can distract you from my spells

If I want you to believe me, then you will
If it’s important to me, you’ll swallow my swill

Because I love you, you need to listen when I say
I’m not as honest as a mid-January day
My integrity sleeps late
And my veracity makes you wait
Truth ducks out early, saying something about a date

If I want you to believe me, best you don’t
Except for this: If you think you’ll be changing me, you won’t
I’m just as honest as a late December day
Trust me: I’m lying. (Or I meant to, anyway.)

On The Fuzzy Side Of My Feet

Grab a goat and wash your cat
Leave the bubbles on your doorstop
Lie to me with meat
On the fuzzy side of my feet

Can o’ beer’s a little flat
And there’s stubble on your pork chop
Rice can be reheat
If you’re buzzin’, try to be neat

I used new rock salt to pay
For my shoes yesterday
But I got the spray
All over
Miss Dover

Wiffle bat won’t make a dent
On that ol’ automatic teller
Granny’s old but kept her seat
On the fuzzy side of my feet

Omelet-tongueing mice are discreet
On the fuzzy side of my feet

Blue Rondo

I’m not ready yet to say goodbye
You’re already headed for the sky
And it’s selfish but I wanna cry,
“David, stay! One more day, anyway?”

It’s your birthday! You’d be 92.
We could sit around and jam with you
Birthday cake and maybe coffee, too,
While we play Rondo: Say that’s okay?

Desmond and Morello, though,
Must be glad you had to go
Eugene Wright’s not ready so
They don’t get your quartet up there yet

I know you’ve got things to do
Like composing something new
In 9/8 or 7/2
That was your signature, that’s for sure

Look, if it’s time
To take the bridge
Then of course you can go
Even though I really want you to
Stay and play another song or two

There’s like a thousand
Tunes of yours that I
Still don’t know
Every seventh night I go to bed
With your rhythms playing in my head

Long after you go
I’ll still be humming Rondo

I could try to syncopatedly
Write all night and so belatedly
Tell you what your music’s meant to me
But it would
Do no good
So I should
Just let you go