Donuts

 

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Whether baked or fried or froze,
donuts keep me on my toes.
Fix 'em any way you want,
my daydreams they always haunt.
On a diet, or safari
in the wastes of Kalahari,
donuts play a vital role --
and be damned with self control!
Frosted, sprinkled or just plain,
eating them is such pure gain.
The secret to success, I hear,
is keeping half a dozen near;
so when the night is black as pitch
and all your dreams are in the ditch,
reach out for a soothing cruller --
you'll feel like a Rockefuller!

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The Garbage Man

 

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The garbage man of long ago has morphed before my eyes
into a Sanitation Engineer of moral size.
Where formerly I'd stuff a bag with all sorts of refuse,
I now must segregate egg shells from worn out tennis shoes.
Otherwise the garbage man -- I mean the Engineer! --
will have me drawn and quartered while his men look on and cheer.
O Potentate of Garbage, O High Priest of Heaps of Trash --
you used to be my servant but now you do hold the lash.
Spare me if I mix up plastic cups with orange peels . . .
and I will bring you sherbet and delightful fruit pastilles.
 

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Sunday Thoughts from Tim T

 

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I guess I must be barren ground, wherein the seed all sown,
begins to sprout but then is checked by weed and drought and stone.
The weeds that strangle me the most, that make me use bad words,
are politicians who do think that honor's for the birds.
The dearth of common sense and trust in our society
has hardened up my heart so that I lack most charity.
I stumble on the stones of doubt, my faith evaporates,
when I compare my puny wage to other's income rates.
As servant I am overpaid and will not be surprised
to have the Boss eventually tell me I've been downsized.
 
******************************************
 
There are no clocks in Heaven.
However, deep in Hell,
the devil keeps to schedule
by clanging on a bell.

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Click it or ticket

 

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"Click it or ticket" the State Troopers say,
lurking along every lane of highway,
waiting for fools who must sure disobey,
heedless as sin on Memorial Day;
then when they catch you they will make you pay.
Don't bother to beg or to kneel down and pray.
Their only delight is to tell people: Nay.
Their duty is clear -- every trip they delay.
Go tell them to "stick it" if you want to play;
I hear that in jail you get soup on a tray.
 

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The Killing Fields

Hitler killed his millions
and Stalin millions more;
Mao was not a slacker;
he evened up the score.
The killing fields still blooming
in Africa attest
that murder is the subject
that mankind loves the best.
There's genocide, abortion,
and gang warfare as well;
drug lords and fell terrorists
make life a deadly hell.
The innocent are slaughtered,
and have been from the first
to satisfy some tyrant's
insane, unholy thirst.
Religion, too, has played a part
in blood spilled on the earth.
Causing that old devil-man
to writhe in antic mirth.
So crimson flows Afghanistan
as we increase the tide;
the hands that craft our policy
will have much gore to hide.

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Spring Bling

 

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The lilacs bloom but I don't care;
I have to buy new underwear.
My clothing is in sad estate;
it smells a bit like old fish bait.
My socks and slacks and shirts decay;
'most everything is thin and gray.
My shoes are cracked, my cuffs are frayed,
my ties with stale food all are sprayed.
Springtime means I must resume
dressing like a wedding groom;
slacks with creases, shirts with collars
that announce I've spent some dollars;
leather belt, which gossip monger
says has grown a few feet longer;
something light in blue seersucker,
made of cotton thread and pucker.
I'd as lief just wear a toga
or, buck-naked, practice yoga --
a nudist's wardrobe just might be
the next step in economy.
Never mind the moral quandary . . .
I'd save money doing laundry!

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My Dogs

 


I don't know why my feet are sore.
My metatarsals are at war.
My fallen arches still descend.
All orthopedics are pretend.
My toes, they crack like rifle shot.
My feet are either cold or hot.
I buy good shoes and wear clean socks.
I take my feet on daily walks.
But still my dogs are barking loud.
They swell up like they're mighty proud.
Each night I soak them; my heart sings
for the great day when I grow wings!
 

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Sweet Tooth

 

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You may say that I am daffy
but the smell of Turkish taffy
makes me think the Nobel Prize
ought to go to other guys;
we need to give a golden watch
to those who gave use butterscotch.
And why are we so deaf & dumb
when it comes to our bubblegum?
No childhood ever was complete
without those popping orbs so sweet.
The jawbreaker deserves award
for keeping kids from getting bored.
The marshmallow and jelly bean,
the sourball with yellow sheen;
whoever brought these things to light
deserves a medal burnished bright.
No honor is too great -- forsooth!
for those who expand our sweet tooth.

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Dandelion

 

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When I see you, dandelion,
I just want to bust out cryin'.
Oh yellow menace on my lawn,
how you multiply and spawn!
I dig you out with hoe and pick,
yet you return at double-quick.
You drink up poison like fine wine;
the more I spray the more you shine.
I can almost hear you chortle:
"We are certainly immortal!"
The neighbors grumble at my sloth;
they gnash their teeth, begin to froth.
Their lawns contain no saffron spots;
I hope they choke on tater tots.
I give up -- don't care a splinter . . .
Just you wait until it's winter!

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Resume

 

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Each and every jobless day
I send out my resume;
emailed to a stranger, I
wonder if it's worth a try.
Maybe if I made it quack
I just might hear something back;
have it sung by Britney Spears
or include the sitcom "Cheers".
Were I trying really hard
I'd include my credit card.
But HR's are so blase,
they'd ignore mine anyway.
Resumes are like the flu:
Shunned and kept well out of view.

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Hungry Child

Hungry child upon the bed
no one cares if you are fed;
your mom is drunk, your daddy's dead;
your room is painted all in lead;
so chew a chip instead of bread.
Sickly child, why do you cry?
The doctor is not coming by;
no health care for such poor small fry;
behave yourself and those tears dry;
Santa don't come in July.
Stupid child, you cannot read;
your hair is tousled like a weed;
insects in it likely breed;
television is your creed;
scratch yourself until you bleed.
Homeless child upon the street
where'd you get such dirty feet?
Never mind the cold or heat;
lower eyes or you'll be beat;
taking drugs is pretty neat.
Angry child you cannot run
far from hatred's rising sun;
deadness soon will seem like fun;
when your life has come undone,
find yourself a little gun.
 

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Books

 

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The bookstore casts a thorough spell,
one I don't resist too well.
My budget very far from spry,
I vow no more good books I'll buy.
But like a drunkard at the bar,
I'll ne'er admit I've gone too far.
And so great stacks of books recline
against my walls like tropic vine,
damaging the joints and studs --
to me, no books are ever duds.
Whether old or modern tomes,
Stephen King or Sherlock Holmes,
illustrated or quite plain,
giving solace, causing pain,
puzzling or crystal clear,
inexpensive, very dear --
all are welcomed, read and stored
on rough shelves of splintered board.
Someday around my ears they'll bring
a deadly crush -- but where's the sting?
Entombed by books, my shroud a page
of something droll -- most blessed cage!
in which to wait the end of days;
the angels I shall all amaze
with learning, wit, and savoir faire,
as I fly up into the air.

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Computers

 

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I hit delete instead of save.
My mouse has rolled off to a cave.
My surge protector came unplugged.
I think my screen saver is bugged.
My email has all turned to spam
and something smells like burning ham.
My error messages agree
computers have it in for me.

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Is It Free?

 

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"Is It Free?"  (with apologies to William Butler Yeats' The Lake Isle of Innisfree.)
 
 
I will arise and go now, and go ask: "Is it free?"
Can I have a cabin and nine bean rows and the honey bee?
And I shall have some cash there, for it comes dropping slow,
dropping from the veils of morning, from where the bankers go.
There midnight's all aglimmer and the Treasury's working late
delivering green on linnet's wings while prices escalate.
I will arise and go now, for always "Is it free?"
is like lake water lapping, a stifling monotony.
I hear it in the deep heart's core, and pavements with mortgages run
and if I can't have the nine bean rows I want a hot cross bun!

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Yogurt

 

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You may flavor it with peaches, you may sweeten it as well
but yogurt ain't a foodstuff makes my appetite to swell.
You can swirl it and add vitamins or lots of cultured germs;
still, I'd rather sit down to a bowl of raw and dirty worms.
Everyone must eat it to lose weight -- or as dessert,
keeping their immune systems forever on alert.
If you're going to fool with milk and try to make it better,
what is wrong with pepper jack and slices of sharp cheddar?
Cheese is what milk may become when it has been inspired;
yogurt is just milk that's old and ought to be retired.

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Why?

 

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My mother had a saying whenever I would go
asking why, she would reply: Because I told you so!
It didn't matter, really, what my question was,
she was always ready to fire back: Because!
Why is there a bed-time and why go off to school,
and why do birds eat insects and why do dogs have drool?
Why can't I drink coffee or jump out of a tree
or smoke cigars like grandpa or use the fence to pee?
"Because I told you so" was all she had to say,
and that was usually all it took to quiet me all day.
Now that I have grown up, I still do question why,
but now I have no mother to give me her reply.
She's gone beyond the questions, the hopes and tears of earth,
to where the answers glisten like rainbows giving birth.
My children have no questions, at least there's none for me;
I wonder how I trampled their curiosity?
 

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The Student Loan

 

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Student loans in college are as common as cell phones,
sold to students by the banks in dulcet, urgent tones.
The good life is dependent on obtaining that sheep skin,
so running up a crushing debt is surely not a sin.
Mom and dad will co-sign right upon the dotted line,
hoping that their backyard will contain a deep gold mine.
Everyone who graduates from college is assured
a job that pays a fortune, even if you're not a nerd.
You'll never flip a burger or become a lowly clerk --
in fact with this economy you'll likely never work,
but spend your life on welfare dreaming of that PhD,
living in the basement of your parents all for free.
 

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FW: from tim torkildson

 

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THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT PANHANDLER (with apologies to Coleridge's Ancient Mariner)
 
It is an ancient panhandler
and he stoppeth one of three.
By thy long beard and hinky eye
why dost thou pick on me?
The Nicollet Mall is open wide
and I am late for work;
here's a quarter, you old bum,
now go back to your murk.
He holds me with his dirty hand:
There was a time, quoth he,
there was a time when all the world
would list to none but me!
And so I sat upon a stone.
I cannot choose but hear
what the ancient Panhandler
is trying to make clear.
The whole world wanted my advice
on money matters, fast --
until I came a cropper
from the economy's rude blast.
'Twas like an albatross had laid
a load upon my head;
banks, investors, all alike,
all now did cut me dead.
The sun now rose upon the right
and now upon the left,
but my own sun had set for good.
Of cash I was bereft.
Credit, credit, everywhere,
yet all the banks did shrink.
Credit, credit, everywhere,
'twas like the missing link.
The very deep did rot, oy vay!
That ever this should be!
Yes, slimy things did crawl with legs
on radio, TV.
And every tongue, through utter drought,
did wag without regard
with mindless cogitations
on the fate of credit card.
"I fear thee, ancient Panhandler!"
"I fear thy filthy hand!"
"And thou are long and lank and stink
like burning rubber band!"
"Fear not, fear not! thou stroller mild"
"I bathe once every week"
"My soul is in such agony"
"that to thee I must speak."
Beyond the shadow of a doubt
I spied some water snakes;
they moved in tracks of bright pin-stripes,
a bunch of Wall Street fakes.
And soon I heard a roaring wind:
It did not come anear.
It issued from the president
and made me shed a tear.
And now my spell was snapt: once more
I viewed the money green
and looked far forth for a career
but found things mighty lean.
But soon I heard the dash of oars.
My rescue seemed assured --
until I lost my house and then
my vision, it went blurred.
I wandered lonely as a cloud,
dependent on the alms
of those who think of charity
without cold selfish qualms.
Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
to thee, thou stroller blest --
He preyeth well who lieth well
to even Wedding-Guest.
He went like one who hath been stunned
and is of sense forlorn--
no doubt there's more will join him
who have recently been shorn.
 

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New Stadiums

 

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New stadiums are packed with suites and seats behind home plate;
top dollar for a ticket now would bankrupt a small state.
The fans begin to baulk at paying highway robbery
to owners who are greedy and appear quite slobbery.
And so some spots remain unmanned, unsold, a laughing stock,
where tumble weeds do ramble by and coyotes howl and mock.
The cobwebs soon will cover up long rows of empty seats,
until the players are all forced to hang up their fine cleats.
Then stadiums will just collapse with horrifying crash,
and kids will play at stickball upon heaps of steaming trash.

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Talkinig Heads

 

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Oh, talking heads on TV news
I hate the way you laugh and schmooze;
your mindless chatter irritates
like squeaky shoes or rusty gates.
You chortle over nothing much;
a racing motor without clutch.
More hollow than a vacuum tube
and slicker than a Jiffy Lube,
your cotton candy stories stick
right in my craw and make me sick.
Pure fluff, I wait for the blest day
when all of you will float away.

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