Extreme Christmas Doggerel (part one)

The blowing snow and cold hold sway
In the fields of Ioway
When the winter settles in
And autumn skies are turned to gray.

People wear a second layer,
Then a third; then they feel gayer.
Muffled 'neath a mountainous garb
If people stare, well, who's to care?

Christmas comes with carols jolly,
Poinsettias, mistletoe and holly.
Cookies coming out your ears
And reaching to the point of folly.

Gather friends and family near
And share a bit of Christmas cheer.
Raise a song to chase the chill
And wait for carolers to appear.

Chet the Squirrel (with a Bob Costas subtext)

Chet was a normal kind of squirrel.
He ate nuts.
He chattered.
That is, until one day,
His life was shattered.
A demon-possessed gun
Desiring some fun
Possessed him.
And made him smoke.
And shoot stuff.
The moral of the story?
The 2nd Amendment is less equal.

Juxtaposition

Lets go surfin' now.
Everybodys learning how.
Come on and safari with me.
(come on and safari with...)

At Huntington and Malibu
They're shooting the pier.
At Rincon they're walking the nose.
We're going on safari to the islands this year;
So if you're coming get ready to go.

The Foolish Knights

Sir Bill is riding on a horse
Sir Jedediah too.
They each have sticks of sharpened wood
So what d'ya think they'll do?
Show caution lest they cause a wound?
Be circumspect and wise?
Alas, but no, these dimbulb knights
Are aiming at each other's eyes!
No doubt there's one who'll rue the day
And cry to his own mommy dearest,
"Twas fun and games, the merest play!"
And her, "A fool thou dost appearest."

The Secret Lives of Monks

.
..
...
Medieval ergonomics being what they were
Monks would get terrible backaches.
They'd sit slouched under arches in order to incur
This pain, and after lie awake
The night through, except when they rose to chant sweetly,
Or were they, (be it not so!) fakes?!
Such cynical thoughts might be par for the course lately,
But should be left to fools and rakes.
No, they sang through the pain at all hours of the night
They grimaced under cowls til the dawn's first light.
And said not a word of those knots in their backs
Except for the occasional spasmodic attacks.
...
..
.

Catharsis

The pestle is the stick, you see,
The mortar is the bowl.
Put some grain inside and "Whee!"
You're ready now to roll.

Crush the grain with vigor
Give it all you've got
Grind it into powder, man,
As you surely ought.

Think of doing justice!
Think of righting wrong!
Think of rank iniquity
And crush it with a song!

My Wife - The Not-Nun

My wife is not a nun
She isn't in the habit
Of abbeys she knows none
Though Abby and her rabbit
Are both there on her lap
And singing baby rap.

My wife is not a sister
But has a little Patience
For living with a ginger
As one of your relations
Is trying for religious too
But she'll press on and make it through.

Art Garfunkel's Hair

Have you ever thought about Art Garfunkel's hair?
Is he balding, do you think?
Or is his hairline receding?
My wife swears it's the latter,
Though it doesn't really matter.
At least, that's what I was conceding
When I left to fill her drink.
Have you ever thought about Art Garfunkel's hair?

Byzantine Slang Talkin'

The sainted fellow, at the meeting,
Raised his hands in sacred greeting,
"What is up my homey fellow?"
Lamb said, "Feelin' kinda mellow."

Ancient

I love gorgeous Byzantine things.
I love knicked-up golden rings.
I love blue that stirs the heart.
I love tears before they start.
I love saints from days gone by
Though I don't have reasons why.
I love things with layered dust.
I love things that have some rust.
I love melancholy flame.
I love saying Jesus' name.
Sadness comes and broods by me,
But Jesus comes and sets me free.

Four More Years! (a political aphorism)

If at first you don't succeed, fail, fail again.

A Lament

Oh, what have we done?
Perhaps our race is finally run?
Perhaps we're near the end?
Or is it just another bend?

The Little Cough

There's a cough, little cough,
who is trying to say,
"I wish I could stay here.
I wish I could stay!
But there is a lady
Who's sitting right there;
To camp out with you,
Well, it wouldn't be fair."

"Ok, little cough,
I give you permission.
Go to the lady
For whom you've been wishin'.
But when you are gone
You'd best not return
For you and your kind
I am aiming to spurn."

Abigail Speaks

I have a small baby who farts.
Her "wisdom" she freely imparts.
She lets loose a toot,
That cute little coot,
From a onesie all covered with hearts.

The Slow March of Suicide

My ol' uncle refuses even to consider the idea.
Something is wrong; he's coughing blood
But he just lights up another heater,
Saying, "Never killed me before.
I'll have a couple more fingers of bourbon, barkeep."

He is dying.
It doesn't mean he will actually die.
No, there's no reason for it.
But somehow it seems, all joviality aside,
That he's had his run and doesn't care much
But to have another and another and tell jokes
And make believe and throw his arms up,
"Nobody could have done better,
But sometimes you hit the end of the road."
As if dull platitudes absolved him of suicide.
"Bourbon, Sam?"  "Yeah, sure, make it a double."

Evil Once Begun

I'm really not too fond of Muhammed;
Though I'll admit to not knowing him personally.
He's been dead for rather a long time.
Quite dead.
And yet he lives on
One of the most influential people 'round these days.
And people keep dying.
"No fair," you say, "It's rather unjust to pin it all on him."
What began in violence continues in violence.
He's no innocent bystander, no.
He's a dead tyrant for whom people murder.
There is no millstone too large.

"The Future Bishop" or "An Essai at Speaking Well of an Enemy"

He was a boy once too and took it all in,
The pious expressions and necessities
That his parents staked their lives on.
He saw the earnest desire to be good.

But in those days so many things were changing
And moving and catching his eye.
The piety of his elders hardly alive
Except in reference to itself.

And so he struck out to blaze a new trail,
To know the truth, yes, always that,
But to live for others no matter the cost,
To be bold, to be new, to shake off the dust.

On Texting

Tiny type is irritating
Demands of one some concentrating
But if one has largish thumbs
It's best to eat a couple Tums.

God the Persistent

I closed up the curtains
And covered my eyes
I ran to the basement
And to my surprise
The light of the day
Had just followed me there
Shining so bright
That I started to stare
"What in the world
Are you trying to do?
Surely you know
That I don't believe you"
Thus did I talk
To the one I thought myth.

He just replied
With considerable pith,
"Whine if you like
And run far away
Like it or leave it
I'm here to stay.
So get with the program
Or screw it up more
Go be creative
Or just be a bore.
Sooner or later
You will know with precision
That you are my son and I've made my decision."

Impregnable Obliviousness

Truth: A blind ostrich
Doesn't need to stuff his head
In the ground at all.