Citigroup

 

---

Citigroup and other banks wield pencils that are sharp.
They claim a tidy profit (do not mention the word TARP).
They take a sunny view of math and toxic assets, too;
they seem to be romantic when it comes to residue.
Reserves are deemed sufficient, if not actually posh;
like Tom Sawyer they are skilled at spreading the whitewash.
Believe them if you want to but before you use their vault,
I'd go out and get me a gigantic grain of salt.

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In Memorium

---

A friend of mine has passed away;
it happened just the other day.
The last I heard his health was good;
he exercised and straight he stood.
But in a moment he was gone,
to face a finer, brighter dawn.
He was a better man than I;
he looked the world straight in the eye.
He meant so much to me and yet
his birthday I seemed to forget.
Of troubles he did not complain;
he had his share of mortal pain.
I was in luck to be his friend,
but I am troubled by his end.
He was the same age I am now;
I could be next, but anyhow,
what causes me to say "aw shucks"
is that he owed me twenty bucks.

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The Extra Fee

 

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Invent a fee for government to charge and you'll be hailed
as a civic hero (though there's some would have you jailed).
A charge for trash collectors who are silent, with a smile;
a fee for clerks who really know a trash can from a file.
Don't forget a bonus for the cop upon the beat
when he busts a criminal who isn't very fleet;
keep the parks wide open with no charge for going in,
but to come back out you pay a pound of flesh and skin.
Driver's license photos are disgraceful, all agree --
if you want a touch-up you just pay a little fee.
How about a charge for every window in your house
or a running meter when at City Hall you grouse?
Birds migrating must pay toll for using our air space;
let the bookies pay some vig upon our old rat race.
Churches ringing bells upon the sacred Sabbath morn
should be dinged quite piously and vigorously shorn;
every tic from every clock should pay a heavy price,
and lets tax Lawrence Welk reruns right into Paradise!
Oh, there's money to be made from a variety of troubles --
never mind the rage that boils in taxpayers and bubbles.

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Car Alarms

 

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As I am sleeping soundly in the stillness of the night,
a car alarm goes off so loud that all my wits take flight.
The shrill, insistent warble of this automotive tune
makes me want to tear my hair and go bay at the moon.
No thief is lurking anywhere attempting to hijack
a Ford or Lexus or Hyundai or even Cadillac;
no, a squirrel or bunny has bumped into someone's car,
and so the damn alarm goes off, annoying near and far.
With my temples throbbing I await the owner's pleasure --
heaping down around his head strong curses without measure.
Why so many car alarms are in my neighborhood
is a mystery which I have never understood;
in my neighborhood the cars are uniformly crummy.
Anyone who'd steal such junk must really be a dummy!

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Gratitude

 

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Be grateful for the cloudy sky that weeps a freezing rain,
for otherwise you'd never know the site of your storm drain.
Enjoy the runny nose a cold will bring in dead of night,
cuz if you did not have a nose you'd look an awful sight.
Rejoice in poverty and want; they teach us many things --
like how to pick a pocket and make do with chicken wings.
Never grumble when your stocks and bonds collapse in ruin --
remember that the plum grows sweet when it becomes a prune.
Be grateful that life treats you bad and sorrows multiply,
and while you're at it tell me how a bowling ball can fly.

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Free Lunch

---

The free lunch is a figment of a fairy tale, you say?
Nobody ever gets one in this common workaday.
Brother, I've got news for you that might come as a shock --
free lunches are as common as our noon-time table talk.
Legislatures vote themselves free lunches every day;
grown-up kids who live at home will never have to pay;
celebrities and journalists who know just how to schmooze
not only get their luncheons free but also get free booze.
Athletes get a free nosh, as do astronauts and preachers;
me, I get a hot dog which I pay for in the bleachers.
Bankers and the Wall Street gang eat free without suggestion
that their gluttony might lead to mighty indigestion.
The Free Lunch syndrome sure has spread -- 'most everybody's got it.
I should know, cuz I'm the guy who normally has bought it.

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life jackets

When the Feds give money there are always strings attached;
like a bargain with the devil, it cannot be scratched.
There's no rhyme or reason to the way it's handed out;
whether with a whisper or a bellowing great shout.
You might get a little or you just might get a lot;
then you might be left alone or put upon the spot.
And if you should refuse it then a traitor you'll be called
and the folks around you will most likely snatch you bald.
Everybody's getting some, so why not you and me.
When the ship is going down can life jackets be free?
 

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Guns

Jack be nimble, Jack be quick/he'll get shot by someone sick/the streets and schools and public squares/are filled with lonely loony stares/they've been taught a gun should be/a standard fine accessory/movies, TV, NRA/we bear arms; it is our way/to resolve life's little quirks/by blasting holes in all the jerks/Tom & Jerry, Elmer Fudd/plugged each other in a flood/of cartoonish industry/antiseptic, fancy-free/cops & robbers, Annie Oakley/as Flanders sez: It's okley-dokely/oh, the fine metallic charms/of such deadly firearms/bullets everywhere we look/even in best-selling book/Gun & Roses, GI Joe/X-box games -- on with the show!/(get your gun and do-si-do)/don't forget the ammunition/on your way down to perdition/children gunned down in their bed/parents shot straight in the head/strangers slaughtered on a whim/in raw blood we daily swim/good it were if guns were not/easy made and easy bought/but they are and so we duck/trusting often to dumb luck/life is short and often stuns/helped along by many guns/can anyone conceive a place/for guns before the Father's face?/when we hear the final knell/all our guns will go to hell/(will we follow them as well?)

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First Time

 

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From Miami's golden beaches to the Phoenix cactus belt/there are first time buyers waiting to put down a little gelt/as the high rollers have tumbled and their houses take a dive/the modest, thrifty renter now begins to really thrive/those who ate leftovers and stayed home to watch TV/are moving in to snap up much abandoned property/their new-found happiness is built upon the many tears/of lavish spending dummies who ignored all credit fears/if everyone were frugal and everyone were wise/there'd be no chance to buy a house for all these little guys.

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Fish Oil

 

---

America continues as the con man's simple foil
by lapping up great gallons of disgusting cold fish oil.
It started with cod liver given to defenseless child,
compared to which pure turpentine is smooth-tasting and mild.
This year of grace the masses pop their fish oil pills like mad --
the anchovy has now become a healthy, hearty, fad.
Fish oil has omega-this and beta-blocker-that;
it will give you glossy hair and boost a chest that's flat.
For all I know it lubricates the brain cells one by one,
so they discharge smartness faster than a Gatling gun.
But let me tell you this, my friend, I've never seen a fish
that looked like it was healthy or did not demand an "ish!"
 

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Pickled Herring

 

---

Oh I have traveled far and wide and done some deeds of daring;
to fuel these flights of fancy I prefer the pickled herring.
Tart and sweet and crunchy -- when you bite a celery seed --
pickled herring is a part of every Norsky's creed.
Snobs and Casper Milquetoasts think it's just for smorgasbord;
I have it with my eggs and toast and Cream of Wheat -- oh lord!
It gives my breath a flourish that nobody can ignore;
knocking all the weak-kneed folk directly to the floor.
Eat some pickled herring and then kiss a girl or two . . .
those who can survive it are the ones you ought to woo.
 

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The Buffet

The buffet lunch and dinner crowd do gobble down and quaff
their food and drink like piggies gathered 'round communal trough.
They pay their seven dollars, then they fall upon the food
with appetite and passion that is positively lewd.
Seven kinds of chicken, mashed potatoes by the yard,
noodles, cabbage, gravy, and wheat rolls, both soft and hard.
Sixteen different pickles, hard boiled eggs, and stir fried rice;
jellow, pizza, taco bar, and fruit pie by the slice.
I think it is depressing how they want their money's worth
and so they eat and eat and eat, increasing their own girth.
And when they leave their tables, piles of food do still remain;
enough to feed the population of the state of Maine.
In a world where hunger sends poor children off to bed,
the denizens of buffets in stark shame should hang their head.

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Comic Book Schnooks

 


Superman is cutting back on capes and tights these days;
Batman laid off Robin -- fighting crime no longer pays.
Green Lantern's gone fluorescent and the Hulk cannot afford
insurance for his rampages and now is very bored.
Thor has pawned his hammer and the Metal Men are rust;
Wonder Woman lost her plane when everything went bust.
Lex Luthor is on food stamps; Dr. Doom a buyout took;
Wolverine works graveyard shift at Denny's as a cook.
Fantastic Four do birthdays and bar mitzvahs for a fee;
the Joker is not laughing when he filed for bankruptcy.
Why don't these super paupers rob a bank in one fell stroke?
Oh yeah . . . because the banks are also absolutely broke.
 

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I.M.F.

Uncle Sam's in London, looking seedy as he meets
with the Group of 20 'round a table with plush seats.
China thinks the dollar should retire right away --
it is old and tattered and has seen a better day.
India will not be quick to help the I.M.F.
They think it's a yankee stooge that seems to be quite deaf.
Uncle Sam no longer has a placid honeymoon
with financial powers, so he cannot call the tune.
The economic crisis got its start in his back yard,
now other countries treat him rather distantly and hard.
His good deeds are forgotten and his expertise reviled;
he's thought of rather like an overgrown and wayward child.
Let the Chinese cackle and the europeans crow;
if they don't start rowing they will feel the undertow.
Old Ben Franklin had it right when he said forcefully:
if we do not hang together, we shall do so separately.

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The Bird Feeder

 

---

The birds, they are a-chirping,
while the squirrels continue burping,
having eaten all the seed I had today.
My feeder's an attraction
to those squirrels who want some action
as my precious bird seed 'round the yard they spray.
I have tried to stop these creatures,
who may sport appealing features,
but who are a bunch of thieving jackanapes.
Grease and powder and devices
that I buy at dreadful prices
they just brush aside like some cheap pair of drapes.
How I yearn for a machine gun.
I would show those varmints mean fun;
send them back to hunting nuts in forest glade.
Then the finches and the blue jays
would be fat within a few days
and the swish of bushy-tails would softly fade.

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Furlough

 

---

The latest craze in government is causing quite a row/asking clerks and bureaucrats to take a wee furlough/this will save us money! all the bigwigs smoothly say/consider it a gift, another unpaid holiday/the unions do not like it, cuz there is no guarantee/that taking such a furlough will prevent a layoff spree/they never furlough governors or presidents or such/that is something which I would enjoy so very much/in fact, shut down the government for all of the Spring Break/two weeks without that brouhaha would be a piece of cake.

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FW: from tim torkildson

 

---

Incandescent bulbs are wasteful, so we try out the fluorescent --
but they seem to give out less light than the moon when it's a crescent.
Or they last a mere ten hours, then wink out like a snuffed candle.
They're poisonous, so if they break you dasn't ever handle.
Expensive, hard to handle -- they are no walk in the park;
torches might be better when we must fend off the dark.

---

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Give Pop a Pill

 

---

Old folks better watch it and not spout off like a geyser,
otherwise their kids will say: you need a tranquilizer.
No one wants to listen to old geezers and their tales --
they are given pills to take the wind out of their sails.
Loneliness and boredom, not dementia, make them cranky;
yet the docs prefer to play narcotic hanky-panky.
Put away in nursing home, who wouldn't start to grumble?
But complaints are met with meds that make 'em stare and stumble.
When I'm old and feeble I will act just like a doll,
cuz I don't want them pumping me chock full of demerol.

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Eating Alone

 

---

I've eaten many meals alone, the table set for one.
No need to heed the dinner bell; I never have to run.
The pale moon of my dinner plate reflects my hungry face;
utensils frozen to my touch as if from outer space.
I read a book or watch TV while chewing on some greens,
then guzzle milk without restraint and end with jelly beans.
Or bite into a hamburger with juices running down
and turning every shirt I own a lovely shade of brown.
It all tastes pretty much the same, home-cooked or ordered in;
I doubt that I would notice if my bread were made of tin.
Why not come and dine with me, for better or for ill?
I'd sure enjoy the company, and might discount your bill.
 

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Bragging is a sin

Just wanted to share this enthusiastic email from a REAL, PROFESSIONAL, PAID, writer about my work; it gives me hope that some day I, too, may be in that position! 
 
 
> From: juliapreston@nytimes.com
> To: tork49@hotmail.com
> Subject: RE: READER MAIL: Julia Preston
> Date: Wed, 25 Mar 2009 13:26:22 -0400
>
> Dear Mr. Torkildson:
> I love this poem! This is the most lucid, succinct analysis of American
> immigration politics I have read in a long while. And you even made poetic
> art from the term hoi polloi.
> I would like to post the poem on nytimes.com so that readers of our
> immigration series can enjoy it as well. Would you mind if I did that?
> (Since you sent it in by the reader e-mail system, at the moment only I have
> had the distinct pleasure of reading it.) I'm seeking your agreement to post
> it signed with your name.
> Let me know. Thanks so much for writing,
> Julia Preston
>
>
> Julia Preston
> National Immigration Correspondent
> New York Times
> 620 Eighth Avenue
> Third floor
> New York, New York 10018-1405
>
> ----Original Message-----
> From: NYTimes.com [mailto:emailus@ms2.lga2.nytimes.com]
> Sent: Monday, March 23, 2009 10:08 AM
> To: juliapreston@nytimes.com
> Subject: READER MAIL: Julia Preston
>
>
>
> To: JULIA PRESTON
>
> You have received reader mail via nytimes.com. To respond to this reader,
> simply 'reply' to this message.
>
> READER'S NAME:
> tim torkildson
>
> READER'S E-MAIL:
> tork49@hotmail.com
>
> READER'S MESSAGE:
> 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 demogogues 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 find 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?
>
> ARTICLE REFERENCED (if any):
> A Slippery Place
>
>
>
>

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