New Verse Satire
The Punchline
All knowing, God does not tell jokes
You may have heard, but when he told
The shaggy evolution one,
It seems Charles Darwin said: “That’s old.
Russ Wallace told it years ago.”
Smile wider than the Universe,
God said: “He got the punchline wrong,
I think (as though God didn’t know!)”
He’s independent as the Devil,
Thought God, so glad for Heaven’s sake
That Darwin didn’t tell the one
About the naked lady’s snake.
A century from now, he’d see
Who laughed at evolution, still.
He knew a joke may well evolve
If folks were laughing fit to kill.
He knew the evolution thing
Would not be getting anywhere;
Explaining how things really are
Would be poor Darwin’s cross to bear.
Those seeking ecstasy in truth
Were scarcer than the martyred saints;
And he would hold the faith franchise:
The junk-food types made no complaints.
For sure, they’d never get the joke.
The truth was that they never tried.
Expecting heaven all their lives,
They got the punchline when they died.
Do Tell
When does my muse sleep,
tire finally, ideas
by wine dimmed:
shagged working gal,
kick the vicious shoes,
peel the brassiere?
Where can a gal-on-call
sleep,
uninspiring schmears for blemishes,
rinsed panties dripping,
fresh belly hormone patch
(none of us growing younger)
phone volumed down?
Well, no, to love her
might ruin a fine team
(borrow an umbrella and all),
but to daydream,
Jeez, I mean
imagery like tracings on skin
smoother than vellum,
lust without a blush--
very good stuff!
What must she do
in bed,
side-resting boobs like nuzzling waterbottles,
thighs pressed like thick lips
to kiss,
easeful sack of the buttocks
at rest.
Sleep?!!
The Just Friend
Indifferent coffee, table
Forgettable, first date barely:
As first as Adam’s astonished kiss,
I was so full of you, in dream
Possessing your burst of breasts;
But scarcely had you said your name,
When you began: I was a kid,
Almost a kid… You went with Fred
(The lucky S.O.B.) to Israel,
And happened (just?), in Tel Aviv,
To be adducted (also Fred?),
Test-driven by three Arab guys,
Who tied up Fred and God, you know,
Were hung like camels, right? Ouch!
But hours later (oh!), faking fits,
Escaped, boobs bare (with Fred Unbound?),
And to this day, get off on (yes?)
“The Story of O,” and, well (yes?),
“Caligula”—when she hangs naked,
And can’t we ( can we?) just be friends?
I Mean...
Mrs. Hunt, Mrs. Hunt,
I think about your hairy
Dog.
Why does it, why does it
Select my lawn to take a
Jog?
Oh, what luck! Oh, what luck!
While doggy takes his jog, let's
Tan.
Will you pick, will you pick
Where you'd like me to put my
Divan?
You know it's, you know it's
Easy to burn your soft pink
Back.
Does it vex, does it vex
You that I never mention
A snack?
Let it pass, let it pass,
I'm dying for a piece of
Something sweet.
You have seen, you have seen,
It's hard to tell you what I
Eat.
You'll be gone, you'll be gone,
And leave me with my jumbo
TV.
That's my fate, that's my fate:
As soon as you have gone, I'll
Watch a mystery.
You will sit, you will sit
And sigh and gently rub your
Shih-tzu.
I'm so blue, I'm so blue,
Knowing that I'll never
Have one, too.
Lift A Latte to Our Memory
To wisdom, virtue, truth, and us!
Come, let us toast, and toast again!
What was the use of all that fuss,
When truth is plain to decent men?
At last, we’re proud of our country,
And ‘tis of thee we sing in praise
Of wine, sashimi, peace, and brie,
Of little cars and big lattes,
Of Sioux birth chants, and Dylan’s dove,
Of wheelchair ramps, gay marriages,
Of windmills, co-op farms, and love
The Philistine disparages.
The hard man’s day is at any end,
The men that fools elected twice.
What nursery school did they attend?
Dick Cheney isn’t even nice!
Well, tell the world that nice is back,
Our country’s reign of terror ends;
And if you’re planning to attack,
Instead, sign in as Facebook friends.
Two-thousand-one is history,
And to be young is very heaven!
And who’s done anything to me?
I read that Bush planned 9/11!
Of course al Qaeda is upset,
We didn’t let them join our team!
Well, now you know what bullies get;
We went and hurt their self-esteem.
Good guys (and gals, and bi’s) are back!
And to our New York friends: Be brave!
After the dirty bomb attack,
We’ll set a sapling on your grave.
The Sorry Tale: John Spits Her Out
Poor John, I take your hand. When one is put to rout
'Tis not for me to smirk or put the boot with hate.
Now, this is hard to ask (but one just spits her out):
Why did you strive, possessed, to bring so low the great?
Astride a city sliced like pie by mobs as old as sin,
Where many-tongued cartels grow fat on life that drips
From drugs and smuggled slaves, and good guys barely win,
You came with martial music and “justice” on your lips.
Straightway, you sought to savage Greenberg, war hero
Who built a firm as fine as any of our day.
Your cases slowly faded, but--you were on the go,
Destroying with a whisper, sweeping lives away.
Slow justice cleared so many; it could not repair
The lives and billions blasted when you would but command.
We thought: What burden of ideals good John must bear!
Ideals that we, who buy and sell, scarce can understand.
And was it those that shone upon your face, today?
Was that the glow your good wife saw, standing at your side?
But you, who pressed a thousand questions: You ran away,
A blushing mouse who'd said: Wrongdoers cannot hide!
The press that hangs upon your words is asking: “Sir,
You're hard to swallow; yet, 4K's a tidy sum.
Does pretty Kristin gulp it down, who usually spits her
Mouthful out? And sir, why do you keep so mum?
“And sir, so many savored such delight when men
You stalked with arcane laws were driven off to jail.
Of course, you know that Johns but rarely get the pen,
But you will plead, we're sure, that justice must not fail.”
Poor John, it roused you so to see a great man fall;
You'd feel: I'm not so bad, I'll celebrate tonight;
Alas, you can't enjoy your own bright blaze at all;
You know too well, poor John, you never reached a height.
Ah well, at least your family's not in danger--
A nasty trick that you used, John. What's that you say?
Oh dear, your patient wife, in private, spits her
Contempt at you? That makes for such a trying day!
But life, for some, becomes a vale of tears, you see
(And you have worked so hard, good John, to make it so),
But heaven ever waits... Oh my, how tactless of me!
Adultery's a cardinal sin. You didn't know???
And yet, poor John, the basest, beady, black-eyed rat
Deserves his peace; I did not mean to rattle on.
About your name, I wonder: Will history call you that?
Or will the books make mention only of a “John”?
Hosanna To His Name
Oh sir, what hope is ours this Easter morn
That you--so famed for treating evidence
For WMDs with proper scorn
(Despite reports that fooled mere presidents,
Premiers, mere analyst, mere pundit)--
That you conclude with lifelong certainty
That there exists in realms of spirit
A Being who, for all eternity,
Has ruled all-wise (unlike the CIA),
Supreme, creating earth and paradise;
And our invading force, on Judgment Day,
Will flash the great Good News: It was not lies!
O captain, my captain,
O when will you be done?
I wish to weigh your words,
But lord, these weigh a ton!
O captain, my captain,
You've said it's time I faced
My service in Iraq
Was worse than just a waste.
O captain, my captain,
You've made it clear to see
That since I've gotten rich
You have no use for me.
O captain, my captain
Your words are like a gale;
Do not you have a few
To puff my little sail?
O Captain, my captain,
You've truly won my vote;
You gave the gift of hope
To keep my ship afloat.
O captain, my captain,
You give with open hand;
My thanks! My heartfelt thanks,
I'll serve at your command.
O captain, my captain,
Please stop! You'll sink my tub!
O captain, hold the hope!
O stop! O gargle! Glub!
“U.S. Missile Targets Terrorist Refuge”
A high official in a bar,
Informed our on-the-scene reporters,
That three blind kittens had been killed,
But no al Qaeda supporters.
''Stoned”
A Boy Scout with a .45
Shot 30 in his Scout patrol,
Till someone brained him with a rock;
The Times seeks stricter rock control.
“Just Kidding”
The mortgage holders marched on banks;
A sign said: “Don't foreclose my loan.”
“My application was a joke,”
Said one. “A cockroach should have known.”
"Why, Without the Fed..."
A buck for every time the Fed
Increased the money supply
And you would have a million, now.
But what could you afford to buy?
"Goes Marching On"
Ms. Beryl “Bitsy” Feinwein, whose parties
In Hampton gardens thirty years ago
Regaled demise of nuclear power plants,
This weekend threw a bash to “Just say no”
To global warming, fossil carbon fuels,
And hundred-dollar oil; she declares
Herself aghast at fighting terrorists,
Who get support from Saudi billionaires.
Wrong Genre
Among my less heroic deeds
Is trapping mice, from whose flat heads
Their eyes pop out like wet black seeds,
And brains come squirting out of their nose.
It's wickedly unpoetic!
I should have written this in prose.
.
De Generation
When I was small I went pee-pee.
In better times, my son did tinkle.
It's rumored some kids take a wee.
But what will be the end of this?
I ask you, sir, would you think ill
If my grandson just took a piss?
Bossy
O Bossy Cow, Bossy Cow,
Why do you moo
And stare down your long nose
At all that I do?
O Bossy, get busy, please,
Eating green grass
That becomes the white milk
You pour in my glass.
Else Bossy, what good are they,
Those things I can see
When you're pouring my milk
And mooing at me?
