Irrelevant Republicans
Irrelevant Republicans,
your golden days are through;
you couldn’t get attention
if they put you in the zoo.
Like dinosaurs who waited
for that fatal asteroid,
you have stood in place until
your party’s null and void.
But wait around for eight more years,
and Democrats are bound
to run the goodwill they’ve accrued
into the cold, cold ground.
Olive Oil
So olive oil is now hot stuff.
No cooking show’s without it.
The stuff retails like liquid gold
and food snobs all do flout it.
Any lout with Crisco or
Mazola on his breath
is ostracized completely
and will die a social death.
But given time the people who
made us eat up our chard
will probably decide to fry
most everything in lard!
The Polls
Before I eat my breakfast now
I always take a poll
to find what kind of cereal
to put into my bowl.
Contenders include Kashi,
Cheerios and Cream of Wheat;
I rig it so that Cap’n Crunch
all others sure will beat.
Then I have to take a poll
to find a pair of pants.
(The scientific citizen
does not leave this to chance!)
Fifty-one-percent are for
a pair of stone-washed jeans,
but the demographics show
that these are mostly teens.
Next the polls must tell me
just which comics I should read –
usually it’s Peanuts
that is always in the lead.
When that issue’s settled
I am ready for my day,
soon as I check up on
what the latest polls will say.
Should I saunter right or left
or down the middle lane?
Should I scratch my head or rump,
which goes against the grain?
Finally the day is done
and I fall on my knees
to check the latest survey
on correct theologies.
I’m not taking chances
with my own immortal soul,
until I see statistics
from a CBS/TIME poll!
Get Out The Vote!
Everybody ought to vote
on November Fourth,
whether they live in the South,
East or West or North.
Question is, are vote machines
on the take or not?
Will computers really know
where you put your dot?
All those early voters may
find they cast in vain
if computers flush their vote
directly down the drain.
When we place our trust in hands
made of microchips
we should not be surprised
when there’s an eclipse.
Pills
There are pills to make you happy.
There are pills to make you sad.
There are pills to make you skinny
that are just a passing fad.
There are pills for every season.
There are pills for every age.
They come in many colors –
purple, gold and even beige.
There are pills you take with water.
There are pills you must take dry.
There are pills that you can chew up
like a piece of cherry pie.
There are pills that set you sleeping.
There are pills that wake you up.
There are pills that tell your secrets
when you pee into a cup.
There are pills that are addictive.
There are pills that make you quit.
There are pills to shut your bowels up
and some others make you . . . sit.
There are pills to keep you breathing.
There are pills to start your heart.
There are pills to save your brain cells,
though there’s none can make you smart.
There are pills I need to take now
but the doggone child-proof lid
means I’ll have to wait until
I find a little kid!
Skating
When I was young I could not wait
to get out on the pond to skate.
My cloudy breath hung in the air.
I dipped and curved without a care.
The wind upon my burning face
as with my friends I’d madly race . . .
At least that is the golden tale
the grandkids hear me now regale.
In truth, when Ma could take no more
she’d throw me out the open door
and toss my skates right after me
and say: You don’t come back ’til three!
So to the warming house I’d trudge
to check the frozen muddy sludge.
The warming house was just a shack,
where cold winds crept up my blue back.
My skates, of course, were second-hand
with blades as dull as rubber band.
The laces spliced and knotted so
I couldn’t even tie a bow.
The leather shrunk, completely dried,
my socks some kind of naugahyde.
To slip them on was no mean feat;
I used some words I shan’t repeat.
And when I got out to the rink
I’d stumble like a man in drink.
Ouch! I’d fall flat on my keyster.
Then would come a cruel Nor’easter
to blow some snow into my pants
as I in agony would dance.
When finally the clock struck three
I’d head for home quite speedily.
Fighting sniffles, with ankles sore,
I barely made it to the door.
And then collapse in reverie
in front of my big warm TV . . .
But that ain’t what the kiddies hear;
my lies get bigger every year.
How skating is so fun and fair.
It gets them out of my gray hair.
Silent Joe
Shoeless Joe played baseball.
Plumber Joe played hard to get.
Now we have got Silent Joe,
Obama’s VP pet.
His leash is pretty tightened.
His muzzle is in place.
Joe Biden can’t say anything
that’s just a tad off-base.
Everything is scripted.
There’s no more off-the-cuff.
Obama has him edited
down to a mere creampuff.
He makes old Calvin Coolidge
sound like a chatterbox;
apparently his lips are sealed,
and Barack supplied the locks!
Hotdog
The hotdog is a mystery,
adventure or a prank,
since you never know just what
is inside any frank.
The wrapper may say ‘Pure Beef’
but you know inside your gut
there is no explanation
telling you it’s ‘Pure Beef’ what.
The hotdog’s made in batches
of a million, more or less,
in a plant in Iowa
without a street address.
The workers speak in Spanish
and will chop up anything
without a single question
that the dump trucks in may bring.
They add a lot of nitrates
and a ton of sulfites, too,
and if I’m not mistaken
there’s a touch of Elmer’s Glue.
I wouldn’t want to be a waif
who accidentlally peers
too close at all the workings
of the shredders and the gears;
that would be a grave mistake,
reproof would be quite strong;
the State Fair I would visit soon
inside of a foot-long.
I guess the only way to eat
a weiner and feel well
is follow that old Army dodge:
Don’t ask and do not tell!
Potatoes
Don’t tell me that gravy
on a mashed potato bed
isn’t the epitome
of living life well-fed.
Or a stack of french fries
lightly salted, dripping oil,
with a gob of ketchup
isn’t worth our mortal toil.
And a baked potato
smothered in cold sour cream
certainly does qualify
as every man’s daydream.
Don’t forget the chips & dip–
Old Dutch is recommended –
without it TV football
never could be comprehended.
Life would be a mockery
and I would be grief-stricken
if potato salad
didn’t come with my fried chicken.
All hail the great potato;
when it’s salted, when it’s greased,
no matter how you slice it
it provides a lordly feast!
Two Sides Of The Same Coin
In a world where gossip
masquerades as fact
what need for compassion,
truthfulness or tact?
When every source is unnamed
and every poll is skewed
every public figure
will soon be barbequed.
The media is biased,
bought or just a drone;
the only news reliable
is on a man’s tombstone.
******************************
Newspapers are shrinking
like the Polar ice, I hear.
They’re laying off employees
without shedding one brief tear.
I guess they’re going digital.
The age of print is dead.
You’ll read the morning news upon
computer screens instead.
I’ll miss the smell of newsprint
and those crazy, far-out ads
for coins and Amish heaters
and the hemorrhoidal pads.
The Sunday comics will not seem
particularly keen
and doing crossword puzzles
is no fun upon a screen.
Worst of all, in summertime,
without a single copy
how can I contain the mess
when I fillet a crappie?
