when the chips passed her lips
they went straight to her hips
and the leftovers padded each thigh.
So she switched to the chips called low joules,
they were good for the stout and the fools.
As they went through the system
(too few fatgrams to list ’em)
they made beautiful, pebble-like stools.
Well, in time she gut thinner and thinner
ate her chip-pie for breakfast and dinner,
got an Oskar (it’s true)
played the didgeridoo
a quite portly potato chip ginner.
from a crow who could talkto a wombat who’d walkover all of the poet’s made beds.And on weekends he welcomed a manwho brought with him a stainless steel canit was full of the stuffthat is made for the toughin the morning he didn’t need bran.Mr Fittock comes every weekand without him it would be so…
the crowd that had come out just after dark.They stood around the donut shop to eata fix of sugar mixed with jelly, to revive;he’d rise above the crowd and gave his speechand praised the Lord that he had kept them all alive.His name was John but they would simply call him Teach.A vagrant who had…
The doctor after he had mesuredhad told him if he truly treasuredhis life he would forego from thenwhat drops out of the lowly hen.‘Cholesterol’, he had declared(as if he really, deep-down cared)‘will shorten life and hasten deathyou eat it it will take your breath.’‘But Doc, what happened to my Pahe was a judge, worked in…
electrifying, even then? !While singing in our High School choir,unspoken messages, adriftthrough bass, soprano, band (too loud) ,so undeterred, in isolation.With an agenda of its own.You did not knowyou were caressingmy very being,young it was.We could not seethe world nearby.That was in nineteenseventy, love.Oh, that ye Gods wouldbring you back,the time so wrappedin honeysuckle.You wash…
I like lavender.Why would you post themCould you not find a craterIn which to dump them?Would you be takingThe Pill Olanzapine then?That would explain it.I do love salads.But not the salads made ofFallutin’ big words.So get the Sprue Gooseand load your junk now, quickly.Then spew it yonder.All will be happyEven the so-called poetsWho are just…
Big Ben – a Yankee.All measurements didlive up to her high standardsBig Ben – The poet.On Sunday morningsshe felt like her own grandmaBig Ben – The lover.There is a weddinga light on the horizon.Big Ben – Will be there.
