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Ancient Evenings

You were naked, wet, primeval, beautiful by jungle pool
And I offered what I’d made with crudely fashioned tools
Strange nights by that strange new fire
As the crescent moon rose higher

Golden were your oiled shoulders under the Egyptian sun
I served you hauling boulders and was crushed when bearing one
Peaceful in in the sand infernal
For your glory was eternal

Once, in silks, you waved farewell as I rode to the crusades
And I screamed your name and charged on unbeliever’s blades
I was true to you, by hell:
I’m not that kind of infidel

I recall you were resplendent when they tried you as a witch
And I loved you, independent of your philters in my dish
I could not break the stockade’s bond
To save you from the ducking pond

I remember at Versailles, in that bergère chair
Your powdered wigs & perfumes, and all that underwear
The worst thing was we never wed
We simply went and lost our heads

On ancient evenings, in ancient times
I would have wooed you with silvered rhymes
I would have sung you this ancient song
Our days are precious, the night is long

 

 

 

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Fat Ass on Couch: a Patriotic Poem

I have a favorite TV show, I keep it in a pouch,
My very favorite TV show is FAT ASS ON COUCH
My mother doesn’t like it much, she really is a grouch
I wish that she could see the joy of FAT ASS ON COUCH
And when I’ve finished watching I can neither stand nor crouch
Because I’ve been immobilized by FAT ASS ON COUCH
My gyre’s surely widening, to Bethlehem I slouch
‘Cause all that I will gimble on is FAT ASS ON COUCH
I will further add endorsement, I will sit right hear and vouch
For the bliss of eating nougat, watching FAT ASS ON COUCH!

A Pirate Poem

“Avast ye, me hearties! A ship to starboard!
And she’s loaded with spices and silk!”
“Do you think they have cream?” A pirate implored;
“I prefer cream in tea, over milk.”
The mate and the swabs chewed upon their hard tack
With cutlasses sharpened, and knives:
(Though some of them knitted , and some played with jacks,
And some wrote sweet poems to their wives.)
The parrot croaked, “murder!” and epithets foul,
And the Captain lit candles in beard
And adjusted his eyepatch, his hook and his scowl,
And thought about wenches, and leered.
But the swabs were distracted by talk of ballet,
And the mate had to check on his fern,
The gunners were busy with their macrame,
And the pies in the oven would burn.
Soon the ship with rich booty was too far to see,
And the Captain he hung up his hook,
And sat down to crumpets and cupcakes and tea,
And read a nice romantic book.

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