Gun Control

Gun control's a subject I am tired of discussing;
no one has solutions, so we just keep on a-fussing.
I have never owned one but it's nice to think I could,
especially the way things are now in my neighborhood.
People with machine guns and bazookas are insane;
they make me think the Constitution's policy is vain.
I wish the whole darn subject would decamp and just go south
and we could jail the people who are shooting off their mouth.

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Sweet Tooth

 

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I can go without my vittles --
don't deprive me of my Skittles!
That sugar rush I do demand
from the Hershey chocolate brand.
Mallo Cups and Sour Balls,
Gummy Bears -- I heed their calls!
Cobwebs in the pantry mean
I will haunt the snack machine,
dropping quarters for a fix
of my favorite Pixie Stix.
Homeless, hungry, unemployed --
candy really fills the void.
When we have run out of money,
just give me some Bit-O-Honey.
 
Tim Torkildson
St. Anthony  MN

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Another Trillion

 

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Another trillion for the banks; ho-hum, what else is new?
Toxic loans are coddled like a new-born put on view.
We pinch their cheeks and gurgle and promise them great sums--
always hoping they won't grow into depressing bums.
We spoil those toxic loans like kids inside a candy store.
We give 'em everything we got and then they ask for more.
We place them for adoption with palatial guarantee;
anyone who takes 'em is assured a gorgeous fee.
And just like bratty children who do not get discipline,
their copper-bottomed promises turn out to be plain tin.
Old P.T. Barnum would rejoice in all of this humbug,
as evil-smelling artifice we all are forced to hug.
When it comes to toxic loans I'm feeling kinda bearish --
throw 'em out upon bear rock and let them there all perish!
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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The Medicine Cabinet

 

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From: tork49@hotmail.com
To: kimode@startribune.com
Subject: The Medicine Cabinet
Date: Mon, 23 Mar 2009 14:16:41 +0000

I don't think that I can rest
'til I clean out the medicine chest.
There's stuff in there as old as dirt;
I hope to heck it is inert.
Vick's Vapo-Rub that stood the shock
of Vietnam and then Woodstock.
Ipecac that seems to be
from the Truman Presidency.
My grandma had these for her ills --
Carter's Little Liver Pills.
Chewable aspirin so decayed,
now it's just as hard as jade.
Band-aids with a sickly curl,
dating back to Milton Berle.
The Antique Road Show might aspire
some of these bottles to acquire.
Ah, the memories that tug
from my dad's old shaving mug!
And these tweezers that I trust
still are safe despite the rust.
I'll notify the state -- they might
declare it all an Historical Site.
 

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The Immigrant Illegal

 

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The immigrant illegal is a bogeyman of sorts;
haunting us at work, at play, and even in our courts.
As economic crisis deepens all across the land
our fear of this poor fellow is continually fanned
by demagogues and red necks and the mindless hoi polloi,
who claim they steal the coconut from every Almond Joy.
Overworked, exploited, and in fear of deportation;
the immigrant illegal knows about humiliation.
They do the dirty work that solid citizens abhor;
when they're sick and crippled we just shove them out the door.
Oh immigrant illegal, I don't wish you any harm;
neither do I think you have abundance of great charm.
I wonder how your country would react if I were there,
without a proper visa, living off the thin blue air?
I don't think they would welcome me with open arms and smiles;
instead they'd have me working behind bars on large rock piles.
When I'm abroad I have to put up with so much red tape --
why do you deserve all that malarkey to escape?

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The Young The Old The Sugar

 

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The battle of the sexes is now stale and growing cold,
with a shrinking job base, it's now: YOUTH VERSUS THE OLD!
Out of work old geezers tell the kids to hit the road;
while the whippersnappers text each other in some code.
Computers still are baffling to those of mature years;
but they hold no terrors if you're wet behind the ears.
The young are always online, looking for that big job break;
the old go stand in lines until their feet begin to ache.
The old are wise and crafty while the young are so naive;
the young are very flexible, the old love their pet peeve.
So when there is an opening, both sides had better run
(too bad the job is promised to the boss's lazy son!)
 
 
*******************************************
 
 
And now it's pure can sugar that is coming back in style.
High-fructose corn syrup is considered pretty vile.
Over processed and fermented, chemically suspect;
corn syrup makes you obese as your health is surely wrecked.
But - oh! - that pure cane sugar is a natural, safe, treat.
(Don't listen to your dentist; they are never too discrete.)
Mary Poppins sang a spoon-full helps to medicate
and sugar plums at Christmas-time?  A joy to masticate!
So put a pinch of sugar in your cheese and macaroni
(just between the two of us, this whole thing is baloney!)

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Taxing Times

 

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It must be tough to take a puff
with taxes ever-soaring.
That nicotine takes lots of green
and don't improve your snoring.
But smokers, please, on bended knees
we ask you to continue.
Cuz if you quit we'll take a hit
in all our bone and sinew.
Your taxes keep our coffers steep,
though your health faces perils.
So buy those butts or budget cuts
will have us wearing barrels!

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The White House Vegetable Garden

 

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The buzz around the White House comes from bees and not the press;
Michelle is turning farmer, weeding 'round the watercress.
Everything's organic, from the honey to the peas;
on the South Lawn rhubarb sprouts up higher than her knees.
Berries and tomatoes, kale and collards will take root
and if the times get harder she may plant a little jute.
Where once old Eisenhower putted golf balls by the score
now there's lettuce spreading and nasturtiums really soar.
Being a team effort, I am absolutely sure
the Cabinet will have its turn for spreading on manure.
Barack will do some hoeing and Joe Biden will inspect
each plant for mold and mildew and the terrorist insect.
Michelle, I do salute you --but I would not share your fate
when you put steamed spinach on your children's dinner plate.

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A New Comedy Team

Obama and Jay Leno do make a lovely pair/they ought to try Las Vegas or some big 'ol county fair/they give out with the zingers and never seem to stall/especially when joking all about a bowling ball/a comic in the White House -- Obama can relax/cuz people will be laughing when they get more income tax.
 

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Dust & Ashes

 

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We spend our whole lives getting stuff;
we never can have quite enough.
But when the Grim Reaper
shoves us with his sweeper
it all disappears in a puff.
Our kids do not want our old trash.
To them it's a bunch of cold hash.
They've seen it for years.
It bores them to tears;
the only thing they want is cash.
So everything we have slaved for
is tossed out the heedless back door.
What was our passion,
now out of fashion --
It sits in a dusty thrift store.

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Bonus

Congress has gone bonus-hunting; they'll shoot them on sight if they can.
They seem to think they're on a mission with Tinkerbell and Peter Pan.
Magical things will develope when bonuses are hunted down;
Washington's portrait on dollars will turn to a smile from a frown.
If congress wants Fantasy Island, they'd better pass much sterner laws
making it highly illegal to go out and play Santa Claus.
 

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The Root of all Evil

 

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The root of all evil is lust
for treasures that turn into dust.
That message is mixed
cuz dollars are fixed
with this motto: In God We Trust.
 

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Bonus

 

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Don't I get a bonus for my oral hygiene care?
My dentist says my teeth will make all other people stare.
Don't I have a contract that rewards me with big bucks
for making funny noises that can sound like fire trucks?
And what about my nose hairs?  I have trimmed them every day.
It's morally imperative that somebody should pay.
Maybe I am not the best at anything I do;
still, I've earned a bonus and I'm taking it from you.
Sure, I'm bonus-happy -- that's American tradition:
Every time I screw up I am paid a big commission!

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Oh, For The Life Of A Hobo!

 

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Oh, for the life of a hobo; a boxcar to call my own home!
Mulligan stew for my supper; dogs chasing me in a foam.
Begging for handouts from strangers and dodging the sheriff each day;
spending my nights in the hoosegow and treated like some rabid stray.
Oh, for the life of a hobo!  I'd skip down the road so carefree;
thrown from a train, I would holler, and not from the pain but high glee.
Drinking a bottle of Lysol and diving in dumpsters for fun;
why should I care if I never am listed with Bradstreet & Dunn?
Oh, for the life of a hobo, with head lice and bed bugs and fleas!
Never a boss to give orders; in winter beginning to freeze.
Join me and we will be hobos, and if the great heavens are just
most of the tycoons on Wall Street will join us soon down in the dust.

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timericks

The nose job will just have to wait
but I'm moving up the due date
to replace my hip
before a pink slip
will send me to Cobra's grim fate.
 
********************************
 
It may come as quite a sharp shock;
our T bills to China do flock!
Those thrifty Chinese
are busy as bees
so we will stay deeply in hock.

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from tim torkildson

The nose job will just have to wait/but I'm moving up the due date/to replace my hip/before a pink slip/will send me to Cobra's grim fate.

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Radon

 

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Anybody know exactly just what radon is?/does it glow or float or maybe start an eerie fizz?/basements seem to have it and the newer countertops/can it be combated with some Lysol and wet mops?/I'm pretty sure the stuff was not around when I was small/I think it came along about the time of the strip mall/Now they're selling gizmos to detect it everywhere/from the basement toilet to the kitchen Frigidaire/like everything discovered in the past half century/it is not too good for you if sucked up constantly/the best way to avoid it is to live up in a tree/wear organic clothing and drink lots of herbal tea/or when the bio-splicing is down to a science pat/order them to make you a nice radon-eating cat.
 

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Forget Britney

 

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Once upon a time the news was full of Britney Spears
and other light-weight bozos who deserved collective jeers.
We viewed their peccadilloes -- all that late night scrumming --
and gave it more attention than the Bible's Second Coming.
But now for villains Hollywood can really not compete
with the savage monsters who are lurking near Wall Street.
Madoff sure did steal the show; he captured the spotlight.
Anyone on corporate jets will get a huge sound byte.
Bankers and their posh retreats make commentators foam.
Reporters who hate A.I.G. would fill the Astro Dome.
Executives with bonuses the size of Power Ball
are inundated with the media's echoing cat-call.
The frenzy of the media has more than just a whiff
of that Dickens character, the hypocrite Pecksniff.
Reporters have their bonuses and live a rich lifestyle,
compared to all the working stiffs that they would like to rile.
The pot has called the kettle black; that isn't news to me.
I doubt you'll hear about it from the likes of NBC.

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Remember when Dummies Held Jobs?

 

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Remember when dummies held jobs?
When work was so easy to get?
Anyone with a head who could prove they weren't dead
was shot into place like a jet.
The factories couldn't keep up.
The offices hummed with delight.
Everyone ordered so fast that it bordered
upon a knock-down, drag-out fight.
The dummies could not find their desks.
To customers they were so rude.
Credit was hoppin' with everyone shoppin'
and caviar was our fast food.
But now jobs are not to be had.
A Master's Degree gets you squat.
Unless you're connected, unemployment's collected,
and all of your skills can go rot.
So all of you dummies, relax.
You will not be working this year.
Put on your beanies and wait for the genies
to serve you free pretzels and beer.

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2 A.M.

 

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Awake at 2 a.m. I see
all of life's futility;
famine.  War.  Disease.  Despair.
Uncertainty of Medicare.
Two-oh-one. The shadows creep.
What's this thing that they call sleep?
Counting sheep's a cartoon joke;
I count friends who have gone broke.
Two-oh-two.  Was that a scream
or the radiator's steam?
As I mature I wake up more;
sometimes on the bedroom floor.
Two-oh-three.  I guess I'll read.
(Can't remember if I peed.)
I regret that goat cheese blintz
that continues to make hints.
Two-oh-four.  I need routine
to escape this wakeful scene.
Maybe sleep is over-rated;
I won't know 'til I'm sedated.

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