Being popular’s a bore
But I’m not in it for the plaudits:
Making money leads to audits.
Lucky me! I’m spared that chore.



I’ll stand up to stray raccoons
I’ll play your favorite song on spoons
I’ll carve you valentines in runes
But I won’t mow the lawn

The pollen makes my eyelids swell
My alveoli start to gel
I gain a painful sense of smell
Until the hives have gone

The neighbors say their eyes are sore
Complain our curb appeal is poor
But I don’t listen anymore
Because my ears are stuffy

All right, you win, I’ll cut the grass
Then spend the weekend on my ass
Until the histadizzies pass
I hope you like me puffy

One Thing All The Time

Sometimes chores deferred evaporate,
Rewarding sluggards who procrastinate.
Other chores instead metastasize
And bury the recalcitruant past his eyes.
Although I know my preference doesn’t matter,
I prefer the former to the latter.
Failing that, I’ll settle for a task
That waits in stasis. Please? That’s all I ask.


I have a list of daily tasks
That I review before I sleep.
They’re rarely done, but no one asks,
So I’ve no promises to keep.
My conscience pricks me ’cause they’re all
Unfinished, but that cricket’s crazy:
He thinks I’m a wooden doll
But I’m a real boy!
I’m just lazy.