Pretentious Pretension
Is there anything less attractive than pretentiousness
Nihilistic self-import, indignant righteousness
I’m just glad I’m not like that
And I’m gifted with what’s within my hat
fin
Cars of My Youth
Cars of My Youth
Cars of my youth, I had them, I did
These are the cars that I had as a kid
Now that I’m older I drive them to work
Or do they drive me, like that snotty “singer” that twerks
The daughter of a country singer, who would’ve thought
You know, this whole world, it’s going to pot
It’s hard to know this, to handle the truth
Oh, how I long for the cars of my youth
fin
Which Lives Matter? (Pray for Peace)
Which Lives Matter? (Pray for Peace)
Black lives matter
So do blue
Pink lives matter
And others do too
Divided we’re so ugly
United we are strong
Enough of this already
Can’t we all just get along?
fin
Two Papers
Two Papers
Two papers divide from the wood
Each intended to teach what it should
One called a country, the other a street
One chronicles business, the other easy to read
I long for the days when each town had its own
The paper boy delivered them uphill, in snow
Well, we rightfully complain of the water in Flint
Which I only knew by learning it in print
fin
The Lever
The Lever
Into the booth I go
I can bring the change, I know
A privilege of being free
Two choices set before me
Neither do I like
A douche and a dyke
Although I thought I’d never
I must pull the lever
fin
Works of the Hand
Works of the Hand
We used to have work aplenty
Mike, Bruce, Dirk, me and Kenny
Work I find now just rents me
Pays scarcely more than a penny
Factories shut down, empty
Mike got a new job, he dreamt he
He did
He drempt
fin
Vunderlust
Vunderlust
Vunderlust, ist mine
Not forever, but for a time
Fleeting, floating, like stench of wine
Cherry perfume for nary a dime
Wifting and wafting
Past my nostrils flared
Tell me stories if you dare
Though I listen, do I care?
I long to move along road and path
To the joyous flights of Sylvia Plath
Singing staccato rainbow verse
Choosy choices versed in purse
BUT SOFT!!!
Why am I drawn to machinery?
The soothing of the rumbling ride
Leaves me in rapturous, frolicy pride
Miniature bumpees surround the floor
Dancing, prancing all the more
Need I know which one you’ll choose?
I’d trade it all for low rent booze…
fin
The Apple Corps(e)
The Apple Corps(e)
A city aspires to be on a hill
Overtaken, not by nemeses, but pills
Sold in batches, like so many matches
As the nihilistic laity seeks her thrills
A fire catches and consumes each soul
Moreso jaundiced, though seeking gold
Turning tricks to get each fix
Not mindful life’s not merely a role
Sitting contently watching the box
Rendering useless all the clocks
Stolen moments, swollen donuts
One’s own mind is sly as a fox
fin
The Good Earth’s Wife
The Good Earth’s Wife
How many licks to the center of earth?
How many tricks to origin birth?
When will you know me as primates do?
The kind that play by throwing poo
My reflection blurs when seen through bars
When evil doers look like stars
How jaunty are the lovely beans
Slick like marketing or Vaseline
There’d be much less bossing
If there was a lot more listening
Or shiny shtuff, proud and glistening
While purple nurples hurt from crossing
If “crossing” ain’t rhyme with the “glistening” word
Then the poet meant “a glistening turd”
Once illegal mullets recede
The wearers feel a certain need
They mustn’t feel inferior feelings
For then they must utter infectious squealing
Just as the onion has copious layers
Only some of which are labeled players
Each one’s equipped to make another life
Yet none deny the Good Earth’s wife
fin
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