If not my all
I gave my most
If my default is bread
If I were money
Then I’m spent
When all the cows have went
If I’m a wheel
My tire’s flat…
Go with that
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
Silliness is good.
Tomorrow’s yesterday’s the present
Yesterday’s tomorrow’s now
Contemplating it’s unpleasant
Must be nice to be a cow
There’s like nine online channels now
Where you can sit and watch a cow
Who doesn’t know you’re there. All day!
No tipping, please.*
*For that, you pay.
Bovine hurdlers in the sky’s
How humans learned that butterflies
I’m pantsless so the Inspiration Bug can bite me on leg.
This evening’s topic hasn’t R.S.V.P.’d. Though I hate to beg,
This train of thought is moving: I’m composing, but I don’t know what
The melody will sound like. Come on, I-Bug, bite me! Taste my butt!
It’s chilly in October and my legs are pimpled like a goose’s.
Maybe I should put my hospitality to better uses?
Fine. I’ll wave the hanky. I surrender. Pass my sweatpants, please?
I’m cold and out of options, plus there’s chicken skin on both my knees.
The Inspiration Bug is never coming. I accept that now.
I’m beaten. No more I-Bug. Have you met my friend, Creative Cow?
Now, I don’t want to bring you down
Or turn that grin into a frown
Or drive your bus to Bummer Town
But, hey, it’s what I do.
When lemonade is needed, I
Rain sour pickles from the sky.
I’m sadness in a ragged tie
And one enormous shoe.
(The other’s caked in poo.)
The point of having me around
Escapes most folk. My friends have found
That having been by me enclowned
Brings plethorae to rue.
(That’s not the plural, true,
But, like the cow said, “Moo.”)
I’m disappointed, too.