Snakes In A Lane

A multihissity of serpents
Sun themselves on Easter Eve
They pose for pix with passersby
Beside the path
And then they leave


Safety Rule

Snakes and ladders
Don’t belong
In games for children
It’s just wrong

Or Maybe It Was “Wings”?

Mice don’t scare me, nor do rats.
I’m cool with cobras, bored by bats.
A spider on my face? A yawn:
When I wake up it’s always gone.
Wait, that last I stole from Cheers,
I think. We all have secret fears.
“No way,” you say, “you, too?” Well, duh:
It’s plagiarismaphobia!

Roboticists Take Note

If Pam the Dog were still alive
Today she would be forty-five.
As it should happen, that’s about
Her “dog years” age when she checked out
In nineteen-double-seven, when
A mongoose — true — attacked her chin
And pierced a vessel deep inside
Her neck. In two short days, she died.
Hawaii’s quarantine was long
And in the end it done her wrong.
Kipling’s Riki-Tiki-Tavi
Notwithstanding, please be savvy
When exterminating snakes:
Control your tools, for all our sakes.

Medusa Slept Here

I check the mattress inch-by-inch for bugs
And kick the bedspread to a corner heap,
Replace the pillowcases in case drugs
Have soaked into the linen. Then, I sleep.
I dream. There was a woman in the bed
Before me. She had snakes in place of hair.
Shampoo was painful; she used mice instead
To give them body. Then, her snakes weren’t there.

I wake. There’s something moving near my feet.
I hiss. No answer comes. Conclusive proof:
Imaginary snakes would talk. I bleat.
I’m swallowed whole. I’m not a sheep, you goof!
The statues in the lobby stand about
In attitudes of shock as I check out.

Don’t Say Bears

Bats eat pancakes.
Snakes eat cheese.
What do bees eat?
Tell me, please.

Crows eat foie gras
Then deny it;
Geese, perversely,
Want to try it.

Flying mammals,
Swift and squeaky,
Bathe themselves
In syrup. Freaky.

Serpents slurping
Liquid cheese
Lay eggs while burping.

Geese and crows, though,
Get a grip!
That foie gras stuff’s
A nasty trip.

One more thing,
Before we go:
Just what do bees eat?
I don’t know.

Arch Nemeses

The arches of my feet are there.
It’s hard to sleep when I’m aware
Of where my feet go up beneath.
That grinding noise you hear? My teeth.
I’m lying there, not quite awake,
Not thinking of the giant snake
That lives beneath my futon bed
When suddenly it fills my head:
My feet have arches! There’s a spot
On each that’s higher than it’s not!
An aqueduct from ancient Rome
Would see my feet and think of home.
The concave portion of my sole
Is empty, like a half a hole
Was pasted to the bottom side
Of where my foot becomes less wide.
The hollow soon expands until
It fills my room. (It can! It will!)
The flesh that’s absent from my foot
Becomes that up with which I put
Reluctantly, with much distress.
Would I prefer an earworm? Yes!
The Disney “It’s A Small World” theme,
Compared to this, is blissful dream!
I press my feet against the floor
And rub the rug until they’re sore
And I’m so sleepy I’m in tears,
And as the Underserpent jeers
(The footless beast can’t comprehend
My misery), I sleep. The End.