I’ve got a thousand bucks tonight
I’ll bet upon the Tyson fight
If I’m a loser, I’ll be poor
but Mike is safe, I know I’ll score!
Tyson will win, I know he will
'cause he’s like the man of steel!
That Holyfield is going down
Mike Tyson will K.O. that clown!
Mike Tyson is my hero, yo!
I wish Mike Tyson were my bro.
I wish I had more than a grand,
Evander’s dead at Tyson’s hand!
Ahhh…It begins, the fight is on!
“Hey, kill that man, Tyke, make him gone!
Take down that washed up Holyfield…
his number’s up, his fate is sealed!
Whoop him! Batter him! Make him dead!
Make me some green, let’s see some red!
You’re the best boxer there has been
I’m sure that you are primed to win!”
Ahhh…look at those big muscles roll
Mike’s got fighting in his soul
He is young and tough and strong
and in the ring he does no wrong!
Mike is great! He is the man!
He’ll make me rich, that is the plan.
Tyson is best and knows no fear…
What…he’s biting off Evander’s ear???!!!
Watch the video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gw2CpW5qtmU
Saturday, October 10, 2009
DMV Envy
Oddly ugly people I see
Hoi polloi at the DMV
Bored, impatient citizenry
waiting in line ahead of me
We get numbers, then wait some more
We’re pacing—pacing on the floor
and standing, sitting—what a bore!
Oh, to be done and out the door!
A sleeping woman by my side
is a prune all wrinkled and dried
She looks as if she might have died
except her lungs push out her hide
Perhaps forty, or younger yet,
her beauty’s flying like a jet
It looks as if she’s lost a bet
and Father Time’s called in her debt
Above her cheek’s a gruesome mole
she looks like tanning’s done its toll
and too much drugs and rock and roll
have turned a princess to a troll
She smells of smoke and cheap perfume
Beneath her eyes are bags of gloom.
Her bleached hair looks like a vacuum
has sucked it to a frenzied doom.
I sit and wonder of her life
Was it sordid or was it rife?
Had she some joy or only strife?
Has she children? Was she a wife?
An hour has gone by of my time
but I grin when I think that I’m
inspired as I write this rhyme
by a woman way past her prime
I’ve things to do, places to go
but my time drags just way too slow
but, for her, time’s unceasing flow
ages her fast and is her foe.
I’m going crazy waiting here
watching that woman sitting near
I’m dying from this crowded drear
She will not even lend an ear!
Wait…she is waking up I see
She stands!...and walks away from me?
Ah…her number’s called, she’ll soon be free
from this dreary DMV
Then I look down and am aghast…
I won’t be gone from here so fast—
I stoop and frown and feel downcast
because –my number is long passed!
I came before that sleeping dead
and realize late, with utmost dread,
that now she is far, far ahead
She’ll be free, I’ll be here instead!
Oh…it is really quite unfair
I missed my number calling there
Because I couldn’t help but stare
At a withered wench in the next chair!
Hoi polloi at the DMV
Bored, impatient citizenry
waiting in line ahead of me
We get numbers, then wait some more
We’re pacing—pacing on the floor
and standing, sitting—what a bore!
Oh, to be done and out the door!
A sleeping woman by my side
is a prune all wrinkled and dried
She looks as if she might have died
except her lungs push out her hide
Perhaps forty, or younger yet,
her beauty’s flying like a jet
It looks as if she’s lost a bet
and Father Time’s called in her debt
Above her cheek’s a gruesome mole
she looks like tanning’s done its toll
and too much drugs and rock and roll
have turned a princess to a troll
She smells of smoke and cheap perfume
Beneath her eyes are bags of gloom.
Her bleached hair looks like a vacuum
has sucked it to a frenzied doom.
I sit and wonder of her life
Was it sordid or was it rife?
Had she some joy or only strife?
Has she children? Was she a wife?
An hour has gone by of my time
but I grin when I think that I’m
inspired as I write this rhyme
by a woman way past her prime
I’ve things to do, places to go
but my time drags just way too slow
but, for her, time’s unceasing flow
ages her fast and is her foe.
I’m going crazy waiting here
watching that woman sitting near
I’m dying from this crowded drear
She will not even lend an ear!
Wait…she is waking up I see
She stands!...and walks away from me?
Ah…her number’s called, she’ll soon be free
from this dreary DMV
Then I look down and am aghast…
I won’t be gone from here so fast—
I stoop and frown and feel downcast
because –my number is long passed!
I came before that sleeping dead
and realize late, with utmost dread,
that now she is far, far ahead
She’ll be free, I’ll be here instead!
Oh…it is really quite unfair
I missed my number calling there
Because I couldn’t help but stare
At a withered wench in the next chair!
Red Snow Road
The city lights on winter nights
shine on the fallen snow
After drinking in a bar, a man walked over to his car
And drove into the traffic flow
Refrain: Cry, cry, cry little children
Your parents aren’t coming home
With vision bleared, he wrongly steered
and hit his head on the dash
The car kept rolling down a hill
Collided with an Oldsmobile
and caused a killer crash
Refrain: Cry, cry, cry little children
You will be loners soon
(This verse played with sirens sounds on piano)
Sirens wailing, lives were failing
and the drunk woke in the chilled air
He saw parents dying, their little children crying
but he was too drunk to care
No more shining lights and speeding cars
once behind the prison bars
But he’s not worried by his fall
He gave his attorney a call
he’ll be out in no time at all
Refrain: Cry little children, cry until you drown
You once were full of smiles, now all you do is frown
So cry, cry, cry and let your anger shout
For the cause of your loss and the cause of your pain
will soon be out,
and free to drink, free to drive and to kill again
Go visit the place where the snow runs red
at the bottom of an icy hill
Where some drunken fool made your parents dead
And go cry by the graves of the others he’s killed
but suffer in vain, for he’ll be out again
to drink, and to drive, and to kill!
shine on the fallen snow
After drinking in a bar, a man walked over to his car
And drove into the traffic flow
Refrain: Cry, cry, cry little children
Your parents aren’t coming home
With vision bleared, he wrongly steered
and hit his head on the dash
The car kept rolling down a hill
Collided with an Oldsmobile
and caused a killer crash
Refrain: Cry, cry, cry little children
You will be loners soon
(This verse played with sirens sounds on piano)
Sirens wailing, lives were failing
and the drunk woke in the chilled air
He saw parents dying, their little children crying
but he was too drunk to care
No more shining lights and speeding cars
once behind the prison bars
But he’s not worried by his fall
He gave his attorney a call
he’ll be out in no time at all
Refrain: Cry little children, cry until you drown
You once were full of smiles, now all you do is frown
So cry, cry, cry and let your anger shout
For the cause of your loss and the cause of your pain
will soon be out,
and free to drink, free to drive and to kill again
Go visit the place where the snow runs red
at the bottom of an icy hill
Where some drunken fool made your parents dead
And go cry by the graves of the others he’s killed
but suffer in vain, for he’ll be out again
to drink, and to drive, and to kill!
Two Chicks
The baby birds work with a will to live
Pecking and clawing till their egg shells give
Two fuzzy chicklets then enter the world
one is a boy and the other a girl
The soft yellow fuzz that they both wear
quivers as they breathe their very first air
Their battle was living and they have won
They want to show off what they have done.
They look to the left and they look to the right
For their dear mother, but she’s not in sight
Instead there are thousands just as they
Chirping worriedly who’d been born that day
Suddenly a huge fat claw grabs the boy
and lifts him roughly like a lifeless toy
A corpulent woman then checks him out—
prodding his fuzz until there’s no doubt.
He is a male, so she breaks his neck—CRACK!
And then lops him into a death-filled sack.
Aborting chicklets is not a big deal
for they are so small and easy to kill.
Roosters don’t bring any profits in
Shareholders view losses as a sin
So our little rooster was born in vain
since he’d not increase the corporate gain.
The woman then claws the baby hen
and does what she’s done many times again.
The lady stops poking when satisfied
the chick’s a girl and can be set aside.
Natural sunlight shall be denied this chick
though the sun almost makes a chicken tick
In a crowded in-door cage she’ll grow
where she may never hear a rooster’s crow.
Her wings are cut off so she can’t flap…
she only breathes the scent of chicken crap
Her feed’s designed to maker her big and sick—
laced with antibiotic arsenic
She is debeaked so in case of a rage
she can’t hurt the others in her cage.
Her toes are chopped so they won’t grow around
the metal wires that make up her ground
And when she has grown old enough to lay,
lights are kept on twenty-three hours a day.
Artificial hormones give her some juice
so day in and day out she must produce
She will lay many months until she’s dry,
then she’ll be killed for us to roast or fry.
As we eat theses tasty birds with glee
let us not forget their misery.
A chick breaks out of a creamy round shell
to enter life in a corporate hell.
All meats found upon our dinner plates
endured similarly tormented fates.
Pigs and cows and sheep and fish
suffer before they are placed on a dish
Gone are the healthy, happy farms of old
where animals lived well till their meat was sold.
Factory farming is now the way
but it’s not only animals who pay
For by eating the products of greed and pain
we suffer ill-health or huge weight gain
We gorge ourselves full of scavenged meat
though plant foods are meant for us to eat.
Christians, Moslems, and Jews should all note
the very first diet that Moses wrote
Contained in Genesis one-twenty-nine
the foods given us by the divine
and the only foods that we really need
are tree fruits and herbs bearing seed.
Pecking and clawing till their egg shells give
Two fuzzy chicklets then enter the world
one is a boy and the other a girl
The soft yellow fuzz that they both wear
quivers as they breathe their very first air
Their battle was living and they have won
They want to show off what they have done.
They look to the left and they look to the right
For their dear mother, but she’s not in sight
Instead there are thousands just as they
Chirping worriedly who’d been born that day
Suddenly a huge fat claw grabs the boy
and lifts him roughly like a lifeless toy
A corpulent woman then checks him out—
prodding his fuzz until there’s no doubt.
He is a male, so she breaks his neck—CRACK!
And then lops him into a death-filled sack.
Aborting chicklets is not a big deal
for they are so small and easy to kill.
Roosters don’t bring any profits in
Shareholders view losses as a sin
So our little rooster was born in vain
since he’d not increase the corporate gain.
The woman then claws the baby hen
and does what she’s done many times again.
The lady stops poking when satisfied
the chick’s a girl and can be set aside.
Natural sunlight shall be denied this chick
though the sun almost makes a chicken tick
In a crowded in-door cage she’ll grow
where she may never hear a rooster’s crow.
Her wings are cut off so she can’t flap…
she only breathes the scent of chicken crap
Her feed’s designed to maker her big and sick—
laced with antibiotic arsenic
She is debeaked so in case of a rage
she can’t hurt the others in her cage.
Her toes are chopped so they won’t grow around
the metal wires that make up her ground
And when she has grown old enough to lay,
lights are kept on twenty-three hours a day.
Artificial hormones give her some juice
so day in and day out she must produce
She will lay many months until she’s dry,
then she’ll be killed for us to roast or fry.
As we eat theses tasty birds with glee
let us not forget their misery.
A chick breaks out of a creamy round shell
to enter life in a corporate hell.
All meats found upon our dinner plates
endured similarly tormented fates.
Pigs and cows and sheep and fish
suffer before they are placed on a dish
Gone are the healthy, happy farms of old
where animals lived well till their meat was sold.
Factory farming is now the way
but it’s not only animals who pay
For by eating the products of greed and pain
we suffer ill-health or huge weight gain
We gorge ourselves full of scavenged meat
though plant foods are meant for us to eat.
Christians, Moslems, and Jews should all note
the very first diet that Moses wrote
Contained in Genesis one-twenty-nine
the foods given us by the divine
and the only foods that we really need
are tree fruits and herbs bearing seed.
Cat Bus Blues
I rode on a bus, late one night When I happened to see a cat bus fight An old weary man had come on board and bought all the transfers he could afford The driver asked whom the transfers were for ‘Cause only the old man came through the door "Why, they are for my friends, don't you see? They are very good and dear to me." Driver drove off, his shift was over soon Why argue with an old bus riding loon The crazy old man yelled, "My name is Gus!" As he wobbled to the end of the long Cat bus At the end of the bus there were five free seats The old bum laying said, "This beats the streets." He was nodding off in a minutes time And that's when I began to write this rhyme. The old man was laying not too far from me And he stank, Dang he stank! Of beer and sweat and pee. Everyone on board, as the old man dozed, Breathed through their mouth as they covered their nose. At one stop a lady tried to get in But the steps were too high and the door too thin So the driver took oil and greased up her butt And squeezed her through as she sucked in her gut She wheezed as she topped the very last stair And I smelled an odor beyond compare It almost overpowered the stench on the bus Given off by our friend who calls himself Gus The scent was escaping from her mouth And blowing towards me which was due south I hadn't closed my nose ‘cause I was writing this down and the stink was so heavy I thought I'd drown The bus seats were full but she'd be damned If she couldn't sit but would have to stand. Being a gentleman I quitted my seat So she could get off her big flat feet. She slowly walked down the narrow hall To my seat which was just too small for this big lady who smelled so bad But then she saw Gus and boy she got mad The driver looked back to the end of the bus As the lady made a fuss and Gus began to cuss "Why're you taking up five seats you dirty old man While you let a poor lady like me stand?" "I paid for these seats, they're rightfully mine!" And he kept on laying as the big lady whined I would have been smiling at this whole event if it wasn't for that God awful scent. Then before my eyes, they began to tussle but against this lady the old man's muscle would surely not carry him through the spat for not even Arnold could lift her fat The driver pulled over to the side of the road to put an end to this episode. He strode on back, to the back of the bus and tried to pull the lady off of Gus He pulled and he tugged to no avail Against this lady he was just too frail Six passengers stood and it took all of us to pull this lady off of Gus When she was off we breathed with relief Only to realize to our grief That we breathed in that disgusting smell Four of us got dizzy and actually fell Gus was laying, little life remaining and only the driver had CPR training I felt sorry for this poor man as he got close to the stink we could barely stand As Gus awoke he cussed and he spat "Why you kissing me, what's with that?" The poor driver with shocked chagrin stood up as spit drooled off his chin. "Old man, you are taking up too much space This poor lady needs to sit some place." "I bought my friends all their transfers and they won't budge so the problem is hers." "What friends? All any of us see is you I think your mind's just a little skew." "My feet, my legs, my back, my arms, my head are all loyal friends who need a seat if not a bed! I paid for their trip and they should have the right to enjoy their rest without a fight!" The big lady shrieked, "You are a loon!" "And you are a fat filled hot air balloon!" The two of them let insults fly The rest of us, we just stood by I got tired of this whole affair So I got off the bus to breathe fresh air I had enough nonsense for the day So I took to walking the rest of the way I thought, "Those two people shouldn't procreate, Their odors too foul and they're full of hate." A few weeks passed and I got on a bus There was the stinky lady and crazy Gus They sat together, I couldn't understand both of them wearing a wedding band. |
Fortune
I start day fishing in dirty toilet bowl
and know this rough day tax upon my poor soul
I leave the apartment house and go to job.
Neighbor turn nose away, I think she a snob.
I get in car and go, but stop at market
I put dime in meter after I park it
I go in to get a breakfast snack and drink
A punk child in aisle tell me I stink
Then I go out to car but it gone away
I flag down meter maid and tell her I PAY!
And I ask her mad why she had my car towed.
She say I had park too long on side of road.
I look at wrist watch and see it tick no more
so I not knew I eat too long while in store.
I get on bus I see, and go more to work
Some momma tell kid not sit by nasty jerk.
When at my cookie factory, I go out.
"Next time take shower first!" the bus driver shout.
My job is put fortune in Chinese cookie
It most difficult work, too hard for rookie
Bossman give me evil eye and say I late
Say time is dough and he no like to wait
City health inspector come to look around
He come by me but I not make single sound.
He go to boss and whisper, he point at me
This not good sign, I think, but I wait to see
Later on bossman come and say I fired.
Say I not the clean man he thought he hired.
Before I leave door he give me my last buck,
He toss me fortune cookie and say "good luck"
I hang heavy head and walk outside his door
Need wisdom of fortune for I am dirt poor
Crack cookie open and read what ends this rhyme:
"Man who drop watch in toilet have crappy time."
and know this rough day tax upon my poor soul
I leave the apartment house and go to job.
Neighbor turn nose away, I think she a snob.
I get in car and go, but stop at market
I put dime in meter after I park it
I go in to get a breakfast snack and drink
A punk child in aisle tell me I stink
Then I go out to car but it gone away
I flag down meter maid and tell her I PAY!
And I ask her mad why she had my car towed.
She say I had park too long on side of road.
I look at wrist watch and see it tick no more
so I not knew I eat too long while in store.
I get on bus I see, and go more to work
Some momma tell kid not sit by nasty jerk.
When at my cookie factory, I go out.
"Next time take shower first!" the bus driver shout.
My job is put fortune in Chinese cookie
It most difficult work, too hard for rookie
Bossman give me evil eye and say I late
Say time is dough and he no like to wait
City health inspector come to look around
He come by me but I not make single sound.
He go to boss and whisper, he point at me
This not good sign, I think, but I wait to see
Later on bossman come and say I fired.
Say I not the clean man he thought he hired.
Before I leave door he give me my last buck,
He toss me fortune cookie and say "good luck"
I hang heavy head and walk outside his door
Need wisdom of fortune for I am dirt poor
Crack cookie open and read what ends this rhyme:
"Man who drop watch in toilet have crappy time."
The Firefly
With frantic flying through the nights
he searched among the pretty lights
to find the brightest one out there
he knew it had to be somewhere
He was driven by the fame
which would be placed upon his name
if ever he did find the one
as bright and pretty as the sun
Then in his search he saw a glow
that beckoned him from way below
He left his perch as down he flew,
down to the red and yellow hue
It was the brightest light he saw
And when he flew with utmost awe
to touch the light of yellow-red
he did not know he'd soon be dead
Now isn't it a wicked shame
that as he touched the pretty flame,
he did not know it was a trap
and he was sizzled with a zap
Those gauzy wings he wore with grace
Which flapped and flew at break neck pace
Are burnt and battered, worn and torn
No longer can they lift his form
If you crave the lights of lime
like the firefly in this rhyme,
Do not be blinded by the glare
and wind up in a lethal snare.
he searched among the pretty lights
to find the brightest one out there
he knew it had to be somewhere
He was driven by the fame
which would be placed upon his name
if ever he did find the one
as bright and pretty as the sun
Then in his search he saw a glow
that beckoned him from way below
He left his perch as down he flew,
down to the red and yellow hue
It was the brightest light he saw
And when he flew with utmost awe
to touch the light of yellow-red
he did not know he'd soon be dead
Now isn't it a wicked shame
that as he touched the pretty flame,
he did not know it was a trap
and he was sizzled with a zap
Those gauzy wings he wore with grace
Which flapped and flew at break neck pace
Are burnt and battered, worn and torn
No longer can they lift his form
If you crave the lights of lime
like the firefly in this rhyme,
Do not be blinded by the glare
and wind up in a lethal snare.
In the Flowerbed
Blue lilies in the flowerbed
can you all see the tears I've shed?
You seem to know that she is dead
Your melancholy shades of blue
are matching colors of my rue
but there is nothing I can do
And roses, all, that once were red
wilting here in the flower bed
Why could I not have gone instead?
Your gloomy scents which rise each dawn
bloom my memories as I yawn
reminding me that she is gone
Cruel was the thief that killed and fled,
left her cold in the flower bed,
a few months after we were wed
Crueler still is to be here
bereft of her who was so dear
without a reason that is clear
You flowers stood around her head
as she lay in the flower bed
still beautiful though she was dead
She was the one that gave you life
my lovely, gentle, caring wife
stabbed three times with a stolen knife
Never again will there be "we"
the thieving killer still is free
these truths do really torture me
I read the books that she once read
remember all that she once said
for hours I cry and hang my head
You flowers go on living though,
Old ones dying so new ones grow,
Devoid of thoughts of joy and woe
Dead petals falling as you sway
its seems you flowers try to say
"All life and pain must pass someday
Be glad for all the things you've got
forget the things that you have not
unless you want your soul to rot."
This all is what the flowers said
with renewed hope I look ahead
more things to do before I'm dead
Her life will not have been in vain
so long as I must here remain
I’ll make her goodness live again
And now the reason, once unclear,
of why I stay when she's not here
matters not for she is near.
can you all see the tears I've shed?
You seem to know that she is dead
Your melancholy shades of blue
are matching colors of my rue
but there is nothing I can do
And roses, all, that once were red
wilting here in the flower bed
Why could I not have gone instead?
Your gloomy scents which rise each dawn
bloom my memories as I yawn
reminding me that she is gone
Cruel was the thief that killed and fled,
left her cold in the flower bed,
a few months after we were wed
Crueler still is to be here
bereft of her who was so dear
without a reason that is clear
You flowers stood around her head
as she lay in the flower bed
still beautiful though she was dead
She was the one that gave you life
my lovely, gentle, caring wife
stabbed three times with a stolen knife
Never again will there be "we"
the thieving killer still is free
these truths do really torture me
I read the books that she once read
remember all that she once said
for hours I cry and hang my head
You flowers go on living though,
Old ones dying so new ones grow,
Devoid of thoughts of joy and woe
Dead petals falling as you sway
its seems you flowers try to say
"All life and pain must pass someday
Be glad for all the things you've got
forget the things that you have not
unless you want your soul to rot."
This all is what the flowers said
with renewed hope I look ahead
more things to do before I'm dead
Her life will not have been in vain
so long as I must here remain
I’ll make her goodness live again
And now the reason, once unclear,
of why I stay when she's not here
matters not for she is near.
A College Day
Important Foreword
I complain a lot in this poem here.
I have warned you, so don’t take offence.
The life in a student’s college career
is sometimes happy but mostly intense.
The worst parts of school in this rhyme appear,
like educators lacking common sense.
Exciting poems good teachers do not make,
so I write of the bad for the reader’s sake.
Chapter one: Too Late
I didn’t go to sleep till late last night
because I was studying for a test.
When the tired bulb burned out in my light,
I decided sleep would be the best.
I ‘woke half dead, the morning sun was bright--
four hours of sleep is not enough rest.
I had no time to grab something to eat
as I ran out to my car parked by the street.
The Las Vegas sun beats down hot and cruel,
and I’m anxious about the test I’ll take.
Nervous sweat breaks out, my car is not cool
I roll down the windows so I’ll not bake.
This is a normal day going to school--
hot as hell, hungry, and barely awake.
After fifteen miles of stop lights and stress
I arrive at college in tardiness.
The parking lot’s full, no spaces remain,
and I’m going to be later than I thought.
It doesn’t take much to make one insane
driving through this school’s stupid parking lot.
I must park illegally in the lane,
it is really the only place I’ve got.
We pay too much for a parking permit
and the product we get ain’t worth a spit!
My watch says I will be five minutes late;
Doctor Boring will surely glare at me.
Interruptions he does not tolerate;
lateness disturbs his lecture’s harmony.
But, it is not my fault he doesn’t wait
or has a strict tardiness policy.
He better not mark me absent today
or I’ll have some really rude things to say!
I run fast through the university,
breathlessly flying to Doc Boring’s class.
Laying on the ground in diversity,
thousands of cigarette butts I pass.
I wonder if smokers think it’s pretty
to display their addictions on the grass.
Littering laws say that they should be fined
but it seems most people really don’t mind.
All out of breath and sweating profusely,
I open and enter the classroom door.
“You’re interrupting the whole class and me,
what do you even bother coming for?
If you insist on arriving tardy,
I think you shouldn’t come here anymore!”
“You’re angry?! I’m the one who should be mad,
it’s not my fault the parking is so bad.”
“Well you should know what it is like by now
and thus leave home earlier than you do.
Your disrespect to us I won’t allow.
I am marking you absent today too!”
“I don’t understand your hatred or how
come you enjoy me being mad at you.
I pay my tuition which pays your wage.
You should be grateful and not full of rage.”
Chapter Two: Boring Boring
I hear his lecture with one half-closed ear.
His remarks are exceedingly boring.
Much of the class is asleep from the drear,
one student in back is even snoring.
The rest of us sit tired, without cheer,
and the monotone we are ignoring.
Enthusiasm his voice and face lack
and can put to sleep an insomniac.
He hands back a quiz we took yesterday
and he looks disappointed at us all.
Though I ordinarily get an “A”,
it looks as if even my grade can fall.
“Students, you should study more and not play--
read your notes and not watch TV football!
Better yet, pay more attention in class
and you will improve your chances to pass!”
“Hey, why’d you mark this wrong?
I got it right! My answer is direct from our text book...
on page one-oh-two it’s in black and white.
I think you should go there and have a look.”
“I do not have to answer to your spite
for you should have studied the notes you took.
My lectures had the answers for the test
and your rude impertinence I detest!”
I wonder why we have to pay so much
for new books that cost anything but low.
These text books many professors don’t touch
since they’d read one once many years ago.
Their lectures are based on old facts and such
outdated and unuseful things to know.
It’s unfair that lazy professors cheat
their paying students with facts obsolete.
Someone is eating a cookie somewhere.
Like a lion on the path of it’s pray,
my stomach growls and the classmates stare.
Breakfast I’ve passed and lunch is far away--
my hunger I’ll just have to try to bear,
and hope my belly has no more to say.
It’s really hard for me to concentrate
when I feel I’m in a half-starving state.
Chapter Three: Hong Kong Wong
Now I go to the class of Doctor Wong
whose lectures give me a migraine headache.
This young professor came here from Hong Kong,
another teacher’s job to undertake.
The old prof. had done some minor thing wrong,
perhaps some small political mistake
like forgetting to lick his boss’s shoe,
so the faculty head found someone new.
Doctor Wong’s English is unbearable.
I catch only a few words here and there.
He thinks he speaks well, but it’s terrible.
His class, like a misunderstood nightmare,
could actually be repairable
perhaps if somebody made him aware
of how much better his talking could be.
But my grade’s low enough--it won’t be me.
It doesn’t matter if you have the smarts,
or that you get nothing below an “A”,
if though you strain your ears from when class starts,
you still achieve a sinking GPA
since you can’t comprehend what he imparts
‘cause English is not on his résumé.
Why is it foreign doctors are hired
while good English speakers are fired?
He laughs at a joke he has told the class.
He thinks he has broken the student’s gloom,
but really a scent, sharp, like shattered glass,
raises the students heads throughout the room
because someone secretly had passed gas
and it’s a powerful effluvium.
Doctor Wong is disappointed to find
he’s less interesting than someone’s behind.
“Class, you learn better, you stay awake, no?
You can sleep better when before class starts!
How you expect you intelligence grow
when you listen not to me but to farts?
If you sleep in class you not become pro
and will you end up working in Walmarts.”
He says that when we sleep, poor grades we’ll earn
but if we stay awake what will we learn?
Chapter Four: T D Ummm...
My next professor I tried to avoid
at the beginning of the semester.
The first day I was already annoyed
from his type of Chinese water torture
and I know I would have been overjoyed
if I could have picked another teacher.
But good teachers’ classes are quickly filled
leaving the boring, foreign, or less skilled.
This is the class where we study the laws
of our nation’s legal justice system.
His lectures are riddled with ‘ums’ and ‘aws’,
also sounds of clearing his throat of phlegm.
He uses the words ‘and’ and ‘or’,
which he draws out so long I have started to hate them.
A good trial lawyer he would not make,
choosing teaching was also a mistake.
I write in my notebook each ‘aw’ and ‘um’,
which comes to ten of each in one minute.
This hobby helps me pass the tedium,
and I pretend to listen as I sit.
He continues to talk ad infinitum
like a broken record that doesn’t quit.
Maybe the ‘aws’ and ‘ums’ spell in Morse Code
“Don’t you wish you could leave and hit the road?”
These notes are really a waste of my time.
I’ll study for the test in my next class.
For, after last night, it would be a crime
if I miss too many and do not pass.
I take out my book and with patience I’m
trying to ignore his speech, but alas,
it’s like the sounding pounding of some drums,
the professor’s lecture with ‘aws’ and ‘ums’!
He’s saying my name and looking my way,
but I hadn’t listened to what he said.
“Sorry, didn’t hear you. What did you say?”
I asked him while I lift up my head.
“Oh, you weren’t paying attention. Ok,
ahh...I was asking ummm...if you have read
annnnd could ummm...recite an aww...chattel law.”
“Oh, ummm, yes, I ummm...have and I can...aww...”
Chapter Five: Test Stress
Finally I’m in the class where I’ll take
the test I’ve been studying so hard for.
This teacher’s good. He keeps students awake.
We are motivated to study more.
And so, though his tests are no piece of cake,
most students’ grades in his class are not poor.
A professor need not dumb down his class--
if he’s interesting more will want to pass.
Our test, today, unfortunately will be
a marathon of endurance,
for I am sleepy and I am hungry
and thoughts of failure are making me tense.
I’ve been sitting for hours already
and it has worn out my intelligence.
Some answers I know, some answers I doubt
as my mind works hard, wonders, and blanks out.
Outside it’s hot, but this classroom is cold,
and I shiver in my hard plastic seat.
The teacher looks like a miser with gold
while watching students so they don’t cheat.
Students around me smell like they have rolled
in some perfume, manure, and rotten meat.
Test taking is surely the student’s curse,
‘specially when comfort couldn’t be worse.
Despite all of this I fly through the test.
Although there are answers I do not know,
I am too impatient to do my best,
for I know when I am through I can go,
and can finally eat and get some rest.
But, time seems to drag eternally slow.
Such is life, bad times too slow, good too fast.
It will be so till we breathe our last.
Chapter Six: Done...Not!
Ahhh...freedom has come, my school day is through,
I will have lunch and a ten minute snooze--
then to the eight hours of work I must do.
Studying and work, it is all old news.
Each day this boring routine I renew.
Each day this paradox I again choose:
I work to pay the way through my school days
and go to school to get a job that pays.
Damn, damn, damn, damn! A ticket on my car!
Now I will have to pay a parking fine!
My long fuse they’ve lit, they have gone too far!
It is really not my custom to whine,
but I feel the parking enforcers are
completely and totally out of line!
Schools are supposed to help student’s succeed,
not rob them of the money that they need.
The school bureaucrats sit around all day
and plan many a nonsensical thing,
like making new costs that students must pay,
taking parking space to build a new wing,
firing workers with efficient ways,
or hiring bad ones and promoting
people who are little better than fools
though they studied for years in many schools.
I like school, though it may not sound like it.
There are many good things I did not write.
This poem is one-sided, I admit,
and at times not exceedingly polite.
But sometimes school can put one in a fit
and all negative emotions excite.
Reading this you have wasted enough time,
so go study now and forget this rhyme!
I complain a lot in this poem here.
I have warned you, so don’t take offence.
The life in a student’s college career
is sometimes happy but mostly intense.
The worst parts of school in this rhyme appear,
like educators lacking common sense.
Exciting poems good teachers do not make,
so I write of the bad for the reader’s sake.
Chapter one: Too Late
I didn’t go to sleep till late last night
because I was studying for a test.
When the tired bulb burned out in my light,
I decided sleep would be the best.
I ‘woke half dead, the morning sun was bright--
four hours of sleep is not enough rest.
I had no time to grab something to eat
as I ran out to my car parked by the street.
The Las Vegas sun beats down hot and cruel,
and I’m anxious about the test I’ll take.
Nervous sweat breaks out, my car is not cool
I roll down the windows so I’ll not bake.
This is a normal day going to school--
hot as hell, hungry, and barely awake.
After fifteen miles of stop lights and stress
I arrive at college in tardiness.
The parking lot’s full, no spaces remain,
and I’m going to be later than I thought.
It doesn’t take much to make one insane
driving through this school’s stupid parking lot.
I must park illegally in the lane,
it is really the only place I’ve got.
We pay too much for a parking permit
and the product we get ain’t worth a spit!
My watch says I will be five minutes late;
Doctor Boring will surely glare at me.
Interruptions he does not tolerate;
lateness disturbs his lecture’s harmony.
But, it is not my fault he doesn’t wait
or has a strict tardiness policy.
He better not mark me absent today
or I’ll have some really rude things to say!
I run fast through the university,
breathlessly flying to Doc Boring’s class.
Laying on the ground in diversity,
thousands of cigarette butts I pass.
I wonder if smokers think it’s pretty
to display their addictions on the grass.
Littering laws say that they should be fined
but it seems most people really don’t mind.
All out of breath and sweating profusely,
I open and enter the classroom door.
“You’re interrupting the whole class and me,
what do you even bother coming for?
If you insist on arriving tardy,
I think you shouldn’t come here anymore!”
“You’re angry?! I’m the one who should be mad,
it’s not my fault the parking is so bad.”
“Well you should know what it is like by now
and thus leave home earlier than you do.
Your disrespect to us I won’t allow.
I am marking you absent today too!”
“I don’t understand your hatred or how
come you enjoy me being mad at you.
I pay my tuition which pays your wage.
You should be grateful and not full of rage.”
Chapter Two: Boring Boring
I hear his lecture with one half-closed ear.
His remarks are exceedingly boring.
Much of the class is asleep from the drear,
one student in back is even snoring.
The rest of us sit tired, without cheer,
and the monotone we are ignoring.
Enthusiasm his voice and face lack
and can put to sleep an insomniac.
He hands back a quiz we took yesterday
and he looks disappointed at us all.
Though I ordinarily get an “A”,
it looks as if even my grade can fall.
“Students, you should study more and not play--
read your notes and not watch TV football!
Better yet, pay more attention in class
and you will improve your chances to pass!”
“Hey, why’d you mark this wrong?
I got it right! My answer is direct from our text book...
on page one-oh-two it’s in black and white.
I think you should go there and have a look.”
“I do not have to answer to your spite
for you should have studied the notes you took.
My lectures had the answers for the test
and your rude impertinence I detest!”
I wonder why we have to pay so much
for new books that cost anything but low.
These text books many professors don’t touch
since they’d read one once many years ago.
Their lectures are based on old facts and such
outdated and unuseful things to know.
It’s unfair that lazy professors cheat
their paying students with facts obsolete.
Someone is eating a cookie somewhere.
Like a lion on the path of it’s pray,
my stomach growls and the classmates stare.
Breakfast I’ve passed and lunch is far away--
my hunger I’ll just have to try to bear,
and hope my belly has no more to say.
It’s really hard for me to concentrate
when I feel I’m in a half-starving state.
Chapter Three: Hong Kong Wong
Now I go to the class of Doctor Wong
whose lectures give me a migraine headache.
This young professor came here from Hong Kong,
another teacher’s job to undertake.
The old prof. had done some minor thing wrong,
perhaps some small political mistake
like forgetting to lick his boss’s shoe,
so the faculty head found someone new.
Doctor Wong’s English is unbearable.
I catch only a few words here and there.
He thinks he speaks well, but it’s terrible.
His class, like a misunderstood nightmare,
could actually be repairable
perhaps if somebody made him aware
of how much better his talking could be.
But my grade’s low enough--it won’t be me.
It doesn’t matter if you have the smarts,
or that you get nothing below an “A”,
if though you strain your ears from when class starts,
you still achieve a sinking GPA
since you can’t comprehend what he imparts
‘cause English is not on his résumé.
Why is it foreign doctors are hired
while good English speakers are fired?
He laughs at a joke he has told the class.
He thinks he has broken the student’s gloom,
but really a scent, sharp, like shattered glass,
raises the students heads throughout the room
because someone secretly had passed gas
and it’s a powerful effluvium.
Doctor Wong is disappointed to find
he’s less interesting than someone’s behind.
“Class, you learn better, you stay awake, no?
You can sleep better when before class starts!
How you expect you intelligence grow
when you listen not to me but to farts?
If you sleep in class you not become pro
and will you end up working in Walmarts.”
He says that when we sleep, poor grades we’ll earn
but if we stay awake what will we learn?
Chapter Four: T D Ummm...
My next professor I tried to avoid
at the beginning of the semester.
The first day I was already annoyed
from his type of Chinese water torture
and I know I would have been overjoyed
if I could have picked another teacher.
But good teachers’ classes are quickly filled
leaving the boring, foreign, or less skilled.
This is the class where we study the laws
of our nation’s legal justice system.
His lectures are riddled with ‘ums’ and ‘aws’,
also sounds of clearing his throat of phlegm.
He uses the words ‘and’ and ‘or’,
which he draws out so long I have started to hate them.
A good trial lawyer he would not make,
choosing teaching was also a mistake.
I write in my notebook each ‘aw’ and ‘um’,
which comes to ten of each in one minute.
This hobby helps me pass the tedium,
and I pretend to listen as I sit.
He continues to talk ad infinitum
like a broken record that doesn’t quit.
Maybe the ‘aws’ and ‘ums’ spell in Morse Code
“Don’t you wish you could leave and hit the road?”
These notes are really a waste of my time.
I’ll study for the test in my next class.
For, after last night, it would be a crime
if I miss too many and do not pass.
I take out my book and with patience I’m
trying to ignore his speech, but alas,
it’s like the sounding pounding of some drums,
the professor’s lecture with ‘aws’ and ‘ums’!
He’s saying my name and looking my way,
but I hadn’t listened to what he said.
“Sorry, didn’t hear you. What did you say?”
I asked him while I lift up my head.
“Oh, you weren’t paying attention. Ok,
ahh...I was asking ummm...if you have read
annnnd could ummm...recite an aww...chattel law.”
“Oh, ummm, yes, I ummm...have and I can...aww...”
Chapter Five: Test Stress
Finally I’m in the class where I’ll take
the test I’ve been studying so hard for.
This teacher’s good. He keeps students awake.
We are motivated to study more.
And so, though his tests are no piece of cake,
most students’ grades in his class are not poor.
A professor need not dumb down his class--
if he’s interesting more will want to pass.
Our test, today, unfortunately will be
a marathon of endurance,
for I am sleepy and I am hungry
and thoughts of failure are making me tense.
I’ve been sitting for hours already
and it has worn out my intelligence.
Some answers I know, some answers I doubt
as my mind works hard, wonders, and blanks out.
Outside it’s hot, but this classroom is cold,
and I shiver in my hard plastic seat.
The teacher looks like a miser with gold
while watching students so they don’t cheat.
Students around me smell like they have rolled
in some perfume, manure, and rotten meat.
Test taking is surely the student’s curse,
‘specially when comfort couldn’t be worse.
Despite all of this I fly through the test.
Although there are answers I do not know,
I am too impatient to do my best,
for I know when I am through I can go,
and can finally eat and get some rest.
But, time seems to drag eternally slow.
Such is life, bad times too slow, good too fast.
It will be so till we breathe our last.
Chapter Six: Done...Not!
Ahhh...freedom has come, my school day is through,
I will have lunch and a ten minute snooze--
then to the eight hours of work I must do.
Studying and work, it is all old news.
Each day this boring routine I renew.
Each day this paradox I again choose:
I work to pay the way through my school days
and go to school to get a job that pays.
Damn, damn, damn, damn! A ticket on my car!
Now I will have to pay a parking fine!
My long fuse they’ve lit, they have gone too far!
It is really not my custom to whine,
but I feel the parking enforcers are
completely and totally out of line!
Schools are supposed to help student’s succeed,
not rob them of the money that they need.
The school bureaucrats sit around all day
and plan many a nonsensical thing,
like making new costs that students must pay,
taking parking space to build a new wing,
firing workers with efficient ways,
or hiring bad ones and promoting
people who are little better than fools
though they studied for years in many schools.
I like school, though it may not sound like it.
There are many good things I did not write.
This poem is one-sided, I admit,
and at times not exceedingly polite.
But sometimes school can put one in a fit
and all negative emotions excite.
Reading this you have wasted enough time,
so go study now and forget this rhyme!
The Little Christmas Tree
I’m a little Christmas tree
Wanting presents under me
I would guard each tiny toy
For the little children’s joy
Since my limbs still touch the snow
I shall have to really grow
Then someday they’ll cut me down
And take me to a cozy town
Here and there the snow has bumps
Where it’s covered all the stumps
Of my friends and family,
Now they’re where I want to be
I can see them very well
In the homes where Christians dwell
Giving houses cheerful glows
Working with the mistletoes
I look forward to the time
When I will be in my prime
I shall be the brightest tree
Anyone will ever see
I use each and every root
To grow yearly by a foot
I see as the years fly past
I am growing pretty fast
Now a decade has gone by
And it’s almost time to die
Axemen come to cut me down
Then they’ll take me off to town
Chop, chop, chop, chop, chop, chop, chop!
I’m the last tree of the crop
Soon I lay upon my side
And they take me for a ride
Christmas is a time to give
And I give my right to live
But I think it’s all worth while
If I bring a happy smile
I am driven to a store
Where they stand me on the floor
People shopping here and there
Eyes are on me everywhere
People now are rather swift
In their rush to buy a gift
Someone may soon see me
As their perfect Christmas tree
I’m not sure about my fate
But I simply cannot wait
To be made up nice and bright
For a family’s home tonight
Sure enough I soon am bought-
To a cheery home I’m brought
And the kids say they are blest
With a place for gifts to rest
Christmas lights are put in place
I feel like I’m full of grace
I’m no longer just a pine
Now I’m something quite divine
They call people here to see
Their pretty little Christmas tree
I feel like I am their friend
And their love for me won’t end
After opening their gifts
Interest in me quickly shifts
Now I’m shocked to find that they
Throw me out on Christmas day
Wanting presents under me
I would guard each tiny toy
For the little children’s joy
Since my limbs still touch the snow
I shall have to really grow
Then someday they’ll cut me down
And take me to a cozy town
Here and there the snow has bumps
Where it’s covered all the stumps
Of my friends and family,
Now they’re where I want to be
I can see them very well
In the homes where Christians dwell
Giving houses cheerful glows
Working with the mistletoes
I look forward to the time
When I will be in my prime
I shall be the brightest tree
Anyone will ever see
I use each and every root
To grow yearly by a foot
I see as the years fly past
I am growing pretty fast
Now a decade has gone by
And it’s almost time to die
Axemen come to cut me down
Then they’ll take me off to town
Chop, chop, chop, chop, chop, chop, chop!
I’m the last tree of the crop
Soon I lay upon my side
And they take me for a ride
Christmas is a time to give
And I give my right to live
But I think it’s all worth while
If I bring a happy smile
I am driven to a store
Where they stand me on the floor
People shopping here and there
Eyes are on me everywhere
People now are rather swift
In their rush to buy a gift
Someone may soon see me
As their perfect Christmas tree
I’m not sure about my fate
But I simply cannot wait
To be made up nice and bright
For a family’s home tonight
Sure enough I soon am bought-
To a cheery home I’m brought
And the kids say they are blest
With a place for gifts to rest
Christmas lights are put in place
I feel like I’m full of grace
I’m no longer just a pine
Now I’m something quite divine
They call people here to see
Their pretty little Christmas tree
I feel like I am their friend
And their love for me won’t end
After opening their gifts
Interest in me quickly shifts
Now I’m shocked to find that they
Throw me out on Christmas day
Dear Governor,
Dear Governor,
I'm a black man from the ghetto--
got took for some other negro.
They say I stabbed and killed a child
they gave me the speediest trial.
Judge and jury were white as chalk
and they believed the white cop-talk.
Through the trial my lawyer slept--
I sat grimly; my children wept.
Lawyer was paid by this poor state
He didn't care about my fate.
I sit here in my dismal cell,
living--dying in man-made hell.
Every tortured breath I take,
during the day when I'm awake,
remind me I am doing time
for another's horrific crime.
He is out there, probably free
while I rot in my misery.
He is a threat to everyone
and will be even when I'm gone.
It's twenty years since I been free.
Kids have grown and forgotten me.
Only the words of those who hate
come in the mail to me of late.
Five days remain until my doom--
five more days of relentless gloom.
Hate needles, don't want to be stuck--
asked the warden to string me up.
Grandpa hanged by the Ku Klux Klan,
I'll also hang by some white man.
Parents would rather wish me dead
than wish the killer caught instead.
They trust the justice I received.
I know I'll never be reprieved--
at least not in this man-ruled land.
I await God's just and loving hand...
it is my hope...my only hope...
to live beyond the hangmans rope--
to be free, loved, and lose my fears--
to no longer shed these desperate tears.
But how could God let unjust men
lock the innocent in a pen?
My faith is weak but hope is strong
that right will triumph over wrong.
I gain nothing from this letter.
I'll see death, just hope it's better.
You've done well since your practice days
Best not sleep on a job that pays
Keep alert 'cause you know it's true
killer's next victim could well be you!
See you up or down there.
I'm a black man from the ghetto--
got took for some other negro.
They say I stabbed and killed a child
they gave me the speediest trial.
Judge and jury were white as chalk
and they believed the white cop-talk.
Through the trial my lawyer slept--
I sat grimly; my children wept.
Lawyer was paid by this poor state
He didn't care about my fate.
I sit here in my dismal cell,
living--dying in man-made hell.
Every tortured breath I take,
during the day when I'm awake,
remind me I am doing time
for another's horrific crime.
He is out there, probably free
while I rot in my misery.
He is a threat to everyone
and will be even when I'm gone.
It's twenty years since I been free.
Kids have grown and forgotten me.
Only the words of those who hate
come in the mail to me of late.
Five days remain until my doom--
five more days of relentless gloom.
Hate needles, don't want to be stuck--
asked the warden to string me up.
Grandpa hanged by the Ku Klux Klan,
I'll also hang by some white man.
Parents would rather wish me dead
than wish the killer caught instead.
They trust the justice I received.
I know I'll never be reprieved--
at least not in this man-ruled land.
I await God's just and loving hand...
it is my hope...my only hope...
to live beyond the hangmans rope--
to be free, loved, and lose my fears--
to no longer shed these desperate tears.
But how could God let unjust men
lock the innocent in a pen?
My faith is weak but hope is strong
that right will triumph over wrong.
I gain nothing from this letter.
I'll see death, just hope it's better.
You've done well since your practice days
Best not sleep on a job that pays
Keep alert 'cause you know it's true
killer's next victim could well be you!
See you up or down there.
The Violinist
The violinist plays in his studio hall,
Resonant melodies bouncing off every wall
Standing amidst a flurry of rich vibrant tones,
His fingers dance steadily, wearing to the bones
Enraptured in the works of composers long since dead,
He dreads every passing note every page he’s read
Though he has played for days without a single rest,
He cannot eat, cannot sleep until he is the best
He may play until his death, or through eternity
Pensively playing chorales for some serenity
Or playing dramatic dynamics in frantic moods
But playing so critical, his music never soothes
Each passing second, each passing minute of the hour
Brings ruin to his strength, diminishing his power
But instrument never faltering, he plays on
Sounds escaping from his bow, meticulous and strong
His fingers raw, his neck stiff, his back worn, his feet sore
His face stern, posture straight he’s preparing for war
He shall champion all masters who stand in his way
For he will be better than anyone else someday
Music sustains him throughout the months, years come and go
But his desire never forsakes him, it seems to grow
Decades dwindle by and he stands straight despite the years
He never stops practicing for it’s failure he fears
His strength gone, hair gray, body weak, decrepit and old
He plays on throughout summer’s heat and winter’s cold
He hasn’t been outside his hall in long gone ages
His world consists of little notes drawn across pages
He is now but a skeleton of his former self
Yet keeps playing the music that lines his endless shelf
And if you happen to pass his old, worn studio
Listen to the perfect music bouncing off his bow
Never mind the bones that pierce his blue, unhealthy skin
Forget the bulging blister that runs along his chin
Don’t think about the blood dripping off his fingertips
Don’t look at the rotten teeth that line his slim, dead lips
Do not be distracted by his bleary, bloodshot eyes
Just hear the beautiful melodies before he dies
For oblivious to him, his days are almost done
And he will sadly wonder where all the time has gone
When he does, he will realize he never took his chance
He never tried to prove just how good his fingers dance
Never beat a single master, never became best
But now his days are done, fears are gone, and he can rest
He spent his entire life perfecting his tone and style
But never got to prove himself in all the while
For he never believed he was good enough to win
And he died playing his worn-out violin.
Resonant melodies bouncing off every wall
Standing amidst a flurry of rich vibrant tones,
His fingers dance steadily, wearing to the bones
Enraptured in the works of composers long since dead,
He dreads every passing note every page he’s read
Though he has played for days without a single rest,
He cannot eat, cannot sleep until he is the best
He may play until his death, or through eternity
Pensively playing chorales for some serenity
Or playing dramatic dynamics in frantic moods
But playing so critical, his music never soothes
Each passing second, each passing minute of the hour
Brings ruin to his strength, diminishing his power
But instrument never faltering, he plays on
Sounds escaping from his bow, meticulous and strong
His fingers raw, his neck stiff, his back worn, his feet sore
His face stern, posture straight he’s preparing for war
He shall champion all masters who stand in his way
For he will be better than anyone else someday
Music sustains him throughout the months, years come and go
But his desire never forsakes him, it seems to grow
Decades dwindle by and he stands straight despite the years
He never stops practicing for it’s failure he fears
His strength gone, hair gray, body weak, decrepit and old
He plays on throughout summer’s heat and winter’s cold
He hasn’t been outside his hall in long gone ages
His world consists of little notes drawn across pages
He is now but a skeleton of his former self
Yet keeps playing the music that lines his endless shelf
And if you happen to pass his old, worn studio
Listen to the perfect music bouncing off his bow
Never mind the bones that pierce his blue, unhealthy skin
Forget the bulging blister that runs along his chin
Don’t think about the blood dripping off his fingertips
Don’t look at the rotten teeth that line his slim, dead lips
Do not be distracted by his bleary, bloodshot eyes
Just hear the beautiful melodies before he dies
For oblivious to him, his days are almost done
And he will sadly wonder where all the time has gone
When he does, he will realize he never took his chance
He never tried to prove just how good his fingers dance
Never beat a single master, never became best
But now his days are done, fears are gone, and he can rest
He spent his entire life perfecting his tone and style
But never got to prove himself in all the while
For he never believed he was good enough to win
And he died playing his worn-out violin.
The Unknown Soldier
We were soldiers, through and through
Who did what we were told to do
We could not ever question why
We could only kill or die
This stump where my arm should be
I got it in the war, you see?
While I was in the trenches
A bomb knocked out my senses
And took my arm to God knew where
But no one said that war was fair
I've come to be known as an amputee...
Bombs make for poor removal surgery (strategy)
There were many like me in the fight
On both sides who thought they were in the right
And lost an arm, or leg, or even a head...
Who died before the enemy was dead.
Now that you know who I am
I'll tell you of one we'll call Sam
Today Sam is a pile of bones
In the tomb of the unknowns
A lady came after many years
And asked for help, with solemn tears,
of science and the government
wanting permission for disinterment
Her children had grown without a dad
And she was forced to give all she had
to be a good mother, and father too
in times when only one or the other would do
So, head held high with fine composure
She was determined for some closure
And boldly knocked on bureaucrats' doors
Just to be pointed down other corridors
Months would pass, she got her way
the bones were dug for DNA
You see, the woman thought that our friend Sam
Could possibly be her missing man.
And like in a paternity test
DNA would lay the matter to rest
The strands of which, like a cryptogram
Hold the secret code of poor old Sam
Cells were extracted from many a bone
that made up the remains of the Unknown
And then some cells from the children's hair
were taken and processed to compare
Four science teams were then assigned
Each to see what it could find
Cells from the legs, arms, chest and skull
were divided up among them all
Cells from the chest where the heart's concealed
Were checked and they revealed
That, indeed, with very little doubt
Sam's identity was found out
The scientists smiled at their success,
and felt they could tell the lady "yes"
Science had made them satisfied
Her husband's bones were identified
But their pride was very short to live
For another team came back negative
When comparing the data they found with dismay
The leg bone and hair had unmatched DNA
Then came the skull team, negative also
And the arm team was soon to follow
So that one of the four showed positive
and three of the four showed negative
The chest team's tempers were unwinding
and they hotly defended their finding
that they were right and the others wrong
but the other teams' fuses were also not long
So instead of looking for testing faults
the weary teams let fly insults
and they might have blackened eyes and busted jaws
If one hadn't seen what he thought he saw
For one doctor's mouth went wide and swore
He saw our Sam who died in war
Turn over on the table where he lay...
But then these men had a very long day
This distraction tore down all defenses
and brought the doctors to their senses
For these were men of brains, not brawn
And if they could, they'd think 'til dawn
They decided they'd check each bone against the others
to make sure that they were truly brothers
And to their shock and utter chagrin
They found no bone had a DNA twin
The arm bones, the leg bones, the chest and the head
Weren't related, except through being dead
Someone had buried these parts together
bones that were not birds of a feather
These skeletal remains had appeared intact
but they were not, and as a matter of fact
Sam's bones were the parts of many men...
And my right arm was one of them!
Who did what we were told to do
We could not ever question why
We could only kill or die
This stump where my arm should be
I got it in the war, you see?
While I was in the trenches
A bomb knocked out my senses
And took my arm to God knew where
But no one said that war was fair
I've come to be known as an amputee...
Bombs make for poor removal surgery (strategy)
There were many like me in the fight
On both sides who thought they were in the right
And lost an arm, or leg, or even a head...
Who died before the enemy was dead.
Now that you know who I am
I'll tell you of one we'll call Sam
Today Sam is a pile of bones
In the tomb of the unknowns
A lady came after many years
And asked for help, with solemn tears,
of science and the government
wanting permission for disinterment
Her children had grown without a dad
And she was forced to give all she had
to be a good mother, and father too
in times when only one or the other would do
So, head held high with fine composure
She was determined for some closure
And boldly knocked on bureaucrats' doors
Just to be pointed down other corridors
Months would pass, she got her way
the bones were dug for DNA
You see, the woman thought that our friend Sam
Could possibly be her missing man.
And like in a paternity test
DNA would lay the matter to rest
The strands of which, like a cryptogram
Hold the secret code of poor old Sam
Cells were extracted from many a bone
that made up the remains of the Unknown
And then some cells from the children's hair
were taken and processed to compare
Four science teams were then assigned
Each to see what it could find
Cells from the legs, arms, chest and skull
were divided up among them all
Cells from the chest where the heart's concealed
Were checked and they revealed
That, indeed, with very little doubt
Sam's identity was found out
The scientists smiled at their success,
and felt they could tell the lady "yes"
Science had made them satisfied
Her husband's bones were identified
But their pride was very short to live
For another team came back negative
When comparing the data they found with dismay
The leg bone and hair had unmatched DNA
Then came the skull team, negative also
And the arm team was soon to follow
So that one of the four showed positive
and three of the four showed negative
The chest team's tempers were unwinding
and they hotly defended their finding
that they were right and the others wrong
but the other teams' fuses were also not long
So instead of looking for testing faults
the weary teams let fly insults
and they might have blackened eyes and busted jaws
If one hadn't seen what he thought he saw
For one doctor's mouth went wide and swore
He saw our Sam who died in war
Turn over on the table where he lay...
But then these men had a very long day
This distraction tore down all defenses
and brought the doctors to their senses
For these were men of brains, not brawn
And if they could, they'd think 'til dawn
They decided they'd check each bone against the others
to make sure that they were truly brothers
And to their shock and utter chagrin
They found no bone had a DNA twin
The arm bones, the leg bones, the chest and the head
Weren't related, except through being dead
Someone had buried these parts together
bones that were not birds of a feather
These skeletal remains had appeared intact
but they were not, and as a matter of fact
Sam's bones were the parts of many men...
And my right arm was one of them!
The Vegan
I'm locked inside a tiny cell
for reasons most unfair
I've quite a story here to tell
sit back and let me share.
One time I went to a buffet
to eat a lot of food
I saw a man with hair turned gray
not in a cheery mood
Pig and cow and fish and bird
I piled upon my plate
The man gave me the evil eye
I thought I read some hate
He looked some fifty five in years
his eyes were piercing gray
I could not understand his sneers
each time he looked my way
"The pig is very good," I said
"Its something you should try."
He looked at me with utmost dread
I could not think of why
"I never eat disgusting pork,
Thinks you I am a loon?
No meat has ever touched my fork
Nor been upon my spoon."
I was aghast at what he said
it sounded full of scorn
I looked to see on what he fed,
his plate was full of corn
"You are a strange one, yes indeed
with what you choose to eat.
You mean the food on which you feed
has not an ounce of meat?"
"Sometimes in salad there's a bug
On which I have to chew
And I must eat it with a shrug,
What else is there to do?
But you're a nasty carnivore
My young bloodthirsty friend
The death of critters I abhor
Their murders just won't end
I see your life will not be long
By what's upon your dish
Your health you cannot much prolong
With steak, pork, foul, and fish!"
"You mean I'll live a long, long time
eating rabbit food like you?"
"Quite true young man, you see that I'm
One hundred fifty-two."
I hid my shock at what he said
I'm sure it was no lie
If decades would not make him dead
I knew I'd make him die
I grinned and said in tones untrue
"You do not quite appear
much older than one hundred-two
not by a single year."
The old man smiled back at me,
I knew he couldn't live
I own a chicken factory
and had a good motive
To cause his death and make him rot,
but then I looked around
I wished to kill him on the spot
but witnesses abound
"Meat is wicked," he'd go and tell
to everyone he could
And then my chicken wouldn't sell
and that just isn't good
With practiced grace and mustered charm
I looked into his eyes
And asked him to come see my farm,
its greatness to surmise
"You simply cannot judge all meat
and say that its all bad
so if you come down to my street
I'd sure be awful glad.
You see I own some chickens there
who live a grand old life
I pay each chicken special care
before it meets my knife."
"You don't understand my meaning
Of why it isn't good
You see killing is demeaning
Earth's creature's are not food!"
"Look sir, I've got a knife on you,
be silent and be still
Do whatever I tell you to
or I will have to kill"
The man looked up at me in shock,
I showed no kidding smile
I wanted him to meet my flock
and stand a slander trial
I knew I'd be the one to take
his great old age away
It was my hopeful plan to make
this vegetarian pay
We headed to my factory
and there I sat on him
In vain he struggled to be free
I cut each flailing limb
"Why are you doing this you brute?"
He cried with pain-filled tears
"You are an old and crazy coot
who's lived too many years.
I do not want to wind up broke
and end up in the street
When people learn that they can croak
from eating tasty meat.
So I will shut you up for good
and chop you very small
Then all my pretty chickens would
have a yummy free for all.
These birds you may refuse to eat,
but they will relish you
They love the sight of fresh warm meat,
with blood it makes a stew."
With that I cut his scrawny neck
his head rolled on the ground
The birds began to cluck and peck
and feathers flew around
In little time they ate him down
and I was very glad .
But the old man had friends in town
who'd seen him at my pad
Police went to my chicken coop
and found his DNA
when they examined chicken poop
that's why I'm here today.
for reasons most unfair
I've quite a story here to tell
sit back and let me share.
One time I went to a buffet
to eat a lot of food
I saw a man with hair turned gray
not in a cheery mood
Pig and cow and fish and bird
I piled upon my plate
The man gave me the evil eye
I thought I read some hate
He looked some fifty five in years
his eyes were piercing gray
I could not understand his sneers
each time he looked my way
"The pig is very good," I said
"Its something you should try."
He looked at me with utmost dread
I could not think of why
"I never eat disgusting pork,
Thinks you I am a loon?
No meat has ever touched my fork
Nor been upon my spoon."
I was aghast at what he said
it sounded full of scorn
I looked to see on what he fed,
his plate was full of corn
"You are a strange one, yes indeed
with what you choose to eat.
You mean the food on which you feed
has not an ounce of meat?"
"Sometimes in salad there's a bug
On which I have to chew
And I must eat it with a shrug,
What else is there to do?
But you're a nasty carnivore
My young bloodthirsty friend
The death of critters I abhor
Their murders just won't end
I see your life will not be long
By what's upon your dish
Your health you cannot much prolong
With steak, pork, foul, and fish!"
"You mean I'll live a long, long time
eating rabbit food like you?"
"Quite true young man, you see that I'm
One hundred fifty-two."
I hid my shock at what he said
I'm sure it was no lie
If decades would not make him dead
I knew I'd make him die
I grinned and said in tones untrue
"You do not quite appear
much older than one hundred-two
not by a single year."
The old man smiled back at me,
I knew he couldn't live
I own a chicken factory
and had a good motive
To cause his death and make him rot,
but then I looked around
I wished to kill him on the spot
but witnesses abound
"Meat is wicked," he'd go and tell
to everyone he could
And then my chicken wouldn't sell
and that just isn't good
With practiced grace and mustered charm
I looked into his eyes
And asked him to come see my farm,
its greatness to surmise
"You simply cannot judge all meat
and say that its all bad
so if you come down to my street
I'd sure be awful glad.
You see I own some chickens there
who live a grand old life
I pay each chicken special care
before it meets my knife."
"You don't understand my meaning
Of why it isn't good
You see killing is demeaning
Earth's creature's are not food!"
"Look sir, I've got a knife on you,
be silent and be still
Do whatever I tell you to
or I will have to kill"
The man looked up at me in shock,
I showed no kidding smile
I wanted him to meet my flock
and stand a slander trial
I knew I'd be the one to take
his great old age away
It was my hopeful plan to make
this vegetarian pay
We headed to my factory
and there I sat on him
In vain he struggled to be free
I cut each flailing limb
"Why are you doing this you brute?"
He cried with pain-filled tears
"You are an old and crazy coot
who's lived too many years.
I do not want to wind up broke
and end up in the street
When people learn that they can croak
from eating tasty meat.
So I will shut you up for good
and chop you very small
Then all my pretty chickens would
have a yummy free for all.
These birds you may refuse to eat,
but they will relish you
They love the sight of fresh warm meat,
with blood it makes a stew."
With that I cut his scrawny neck
his head rolled on the ground
The birds began to cluck and peck
and feathers flew around
In little time they ate him down
and I was very glad .
But the old man had friends in town
who'd seen him at my pad
Police went to my chicken coop
and found his DNA
when they examined chicken poop
that's why I'm here today.
The Halloweener
Ghosts and goblins at the door
Ugly, bloody ghouls of gore
Wanting treats I have in store
Wanting more, and more, and more.
Little demons of the street
Pounding with their little feet
Waking me with "trick or treat"
Wanting anything that’s sweet.
From my knowledge I can tell
When they knock or ring the bell
It is bothersome as hell
That is why I cast this spell
"Half a ton of vulture’s eyes
Vomit from the throats of flies
Venom, acid, ugly ties
Then a cup of ghostly sighs
Add a shrieky rooster’s crow
And some water with a glow
Mix in warts from someone’s toe
To the caldron they all go"
Chanting to my grimy stew
Adding eyeballs two by two
Soon I have a magic brew
Sweeter than the junk kids chew
Every minute of the clock
Comes the usual knock, knock, knock
When I open up my lock
Kids receive a tasty shock
Trick or treat they have no pick
All their little treats I trick
When they swallow, chew, or lick
What they chose will make them sick
I am saving teeth this night
Keeping smiles clean and bright
‘Cause kids lose their appetite
As their faces all turn white
Sugar they shall now equate
With a painful belly-ache
And my treats will make them hate
Sweets they used to think were great
When this day comes back next year
Children won’t be coming near
Sweet-toothed monsters I won’t hear
No more torture to my ear
Police pounding with a stick
"Knock that door down really quick
Catch that lousy lunatic
Making all these children sick"
I explain that I’m obsessed
That I tried my very best
To achieve some needed rest
And their presence I protest
"I’ll be famous, you will see
They will even honor me
Each child’s parents will be free
From the costly dentist’s fee"
Wrestling me down right then
Took the strength of fifty men
Now I’m locked up in a pen
‘Til my time is done in ten
They say I deserve to rot
But I’m fine with what I’ve got
Life might not be very hot
But I have a peaceful cot
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