The night is young, but I am old,
And so I write this little scold
To those who want the Internet
To track down roving buddies yet.
Do I care if Bill and Sue
Are walking in the Como Zoo?
So what if Fred and Sam and Gene
Are on a bus to Bowling Green?
What good does it do for me
To track my dear wife's shopping spree?
I guess it makes me very dated –
I don't want to be located.
But if you really have to know,
I'm at a bar, just sipping slow.
I lay upon the beach too long
So now I sing this mournful song:
Sunburn! Have I got sunburn!
I didn't think the sun so strong;
How can one guy be so wrong?
Sunburn! Have I got sunburn!
My shoulders feel as if some hick
Had beaten on them with a stick.
Sunburn! Have I got sunburn!
My arms are baked and my poor nose
Like a light bulb warmly glows.
Sunburn! Have I got sunburn!
I thought a little baby oil
Would prevent this awesome broil.
Sunburn! Have I got sunburn!
If you like this song of mine
Please get me some calamine!
Sunburn! Have I got sunburn!
Everyone's a winner, as the carnies used to bark.
No one likes a loser; it is making life too stark.
Do not hint your children might be second-rate at all,
Even if they cannot sing or hit a soccer ball.
If they think that ev'rything they do is hunky-dory
They will grow up looking for elusive fame and glory.
Mundane jobs will stifle them; without those daily medals
Life will seem like roses that have shed all their bright petals.
If you want your children to remain at home forever,
Just you keep on tellin' 'em that they are way too clever.
O, those sneaky hens have got us where they want us at long last;
eating omlette time bombs with a salmonella blast!
Too long have they stood by while we massacred their chicks;
Now they're turning on us with a bag of toxic tricks!
FDA inspectors do not need to be accused
Of any dereliction; Chicken Little has us rused!
Round up all the poultry, they belong in durance vile!
Let 'em stew in solitary for a good long while.
If they do not give us names and dates and strategy
I say we get The Colonel to start making 'em talk free!
I love my mother-in-law
And tax collectors
And telemarketers
And impound lot attendants
And the friend who
Borrowed twenty dollars
Ten years ago and has
Forgotten all about it.
I love my boss
And my mechanic
(who just bought a
Condo in Aspen)
And my other friend –
The one that borrowed
My car and never
Mentioned the ding
He put on the left
Side.
I love everyone
That has ever
Discombobulated
Me.
Their illnesses,
Divorces, debts,
Bumfuzzlements,
And eventual death
Give me something
To look forward to.
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/24/us/24bar.html?ref=adam_liptak
Lawyers buying artwork of themselves inside the Court
Are ripe for escalating such fine vanity to sport.
A couple thousand bucks and ev'ry hometown Clarence Darrow
Is depicted standing tall and straight as any arrow,
Defending truth and innocence before the bar of Justice
With the noble bearing of a Caesar or Augustus.
Warts and wrinkles disappear from off their modest faces
As they jaw away in style while snapping on their braces.
Such flattery, if laid on thick, must have good money in it.
As grand old P.T. Barnum said: "There's one born ev'ry minute!"
When I was young and full of butter
I could make a girl's heart flutter.
My teeth were white, my breath was fresh;
My thoughts and actions still could mesh.
My feet were firm, my belt was taut;
My goals were mostly all store-bought.
I ate with relish ev'ry meal.
My morals were of stainless steel.
But now that rust is setting in
And I am full of margarine –
I am old & fat, not wiser –
More leftover than appetizer –
Since mainsprings won't be wound again,
A single thought comes now & then;
There's one thing more before I pass . . .
I'd like to kick bin Laden's ass.
An honest politician is a blot upon the state.
A wishy-washy fellow, as slippery as a skate.
They won't take your money to ignore an oversight
That makes some public building start collapsing overnight.
They will not put your uncle in a cushy job – oh no;
They'd rather see you nephews in a breadline moving slow.
They cannot be persuaded to just turn the other cheek
When you want to build a place that could pollute a creek.
They listen to an inner voice, like any schizophrenic.
You can't give 'em jewelry cuz they ain't photogenic.
Trampling the people, they will only serve the law.
The prudent man knows when his wife is busy with crochet
Trouble has an invite and there'll soon be hell to pay.
Ev'ry time she hooks the loop and pulls it in a knot
It's your head she's thinkin' on – you're really in a spot!
If perchance the bacon comes out flabby and quite pale;
The eggs are pretty runny and the toast turns out like shale –
Wisdom dictates swift retreat to some secluded spot
Where you won't be drawn & quartered, or perhaps gut-shot!
When she's talking on the phone and tells you not to stay,
Five'll get you twenty that her mother's on her way.
It may be that late at night you'll hear her scrubbing floors;
Be prepared for typhoons to come blasting at your shores.
It doesn't matter that you've haven't done a blessed thing;
You are in the dog house just as sure as Crosby's Bing.
Any explanation would be too much to expect.
You posses some newly found-out devilish defect.
Do not think a rose bouquet or box of candy treats
Will get you off the hook, my friend – you'd better wear some cleats.
For you'll be running ragged till the cows come home for sure;
She wants to sit and "talk" with you amidst the flying fur.
Now's the time to put a stop to all this folderol.
Now's the time for you to calmly stand up straight and tall.
Now's the time to look right in her angry, blazing eyes.
Now's the time to tell her that you do apologize.
Out on Martha's Vineyard there's a golf course, so they say,
Where weeds and thistles, crabgrass, are allowed a holiday.
No fungicides or pesticides are used upon the greens.
No gardeners are prowling with Round Up inside their jeans.
The course has gone organic and they vacuum up the dew
Instead of spraying for a fungal infestation – whew!
I wonder, do they cut the grass with some old-fashioned scythe?
Do they coddle grubs or find a way to make them writhe?
The President is playing there, and what I wanna know
Is will they still need fertilizer once he starts his show.
I'm sending lots of emails, like a maven I can click
On buttons or on icons – I believe I'm pretty slick.
I'm surfing and I've googled ev'rything from this to that;
I follow links tenaciously – I'm no tame pussy cat.
But in the midst of commenting or ordering online
I'm stopped dead in the water by a screen that's so malign.
To prove I'm not a spammer I must copy down a set
Of letters that were carried by a camel from Tibet –
At least that's how they look to me, all scrambled and unclear;
Before my bleary eyes they never seem to much cohere.
Is that a "P" or could it be a sorta, kinda, "8"?
And what's this little doo-dad? (Please remember my heart rate!)
Upper case or lower case? I really cannot tell.
And this here smudgy thingum can go straight on down to hell!
After twenty minutes I give up – I feel forsook.
The internet's a racket – think I'll go and read a book.
No matter what I'm reading I have no need to surmount
Anything that's asking me to verify my account.
Flight attendants run amok –
Nowadays, that's just my luck.
First the postal worker cracks.
Then the store clerk just attacks.
Snipers on the freeway bridge.
Salmonella in my fridge.
Poison in my Tylenol.
Faulty gas tanks on recall.
In the air, where they should dote,
Flight attendants cut my throat.
I could increase my life span
Living in Afghanistan!
Seems like ev'ry other week will
Bring another movie sequel.
Hollywood does not endeavor
Plotlines, character, to sever.
If the product keeps on selling
New ideas will not be jelling.
What a sad, disgusting fate –
To watch the stars regurgitate!
Movies without one new wrinkle
Make me do a Rip Van Winkle.
Ev'ry cloud of trouble has a lining that is shiny;
Even this recession has one (though it's mighty tiny.)
There is no inflation, so our pundits tell us brightly;
And blue collar jobs are up (though it's only slightly.)
This should be enough to brighten anybody's day;
It is like a rainbow (or an execution's stay.)
Nobody likes religion anymore, it's plain to see;
Whether Pope or imam, we would rather not agree
With their rules and strictures that are terribly outdated,
With their narrow dogma that grows further constipated.
We do not want gatekeepers who prevent us with a nod
From dealing quite directly with a kind & loving God.
So we make our own rules up and suddenly we find
That God may be quite loving but that Life ain't very kind.
The Pentagon demands that WikiLeaks the right thing do
and return their information, stop their Internet debut.
It is giving aid and comfort to our enemies, they claim.
It is really messing with the Chief Executive's own game.
Appealing to the conscience of a website is akin
To batting in the Major Leagues with just a bowling pin.
Oh, life certainly is fair
For the av'rage billionaire
As he or she gloms money by the bale.
They never seem to tire
Of putting it to hire
And letting others worry if they fail.
Now I read here in the papers
That to justify their capers
All these plutocrats are pledged to charity.
They will give half of their profit
To those that they have saw fit
Ought to benefit from some slight parity.
This is certainly heart-warming,
Even if it is barn-storming,
Though to billionaires it might seem just small snackses.
Still and all I can't help feeling,
Though this gesture is appealing,
It'd be better for them to pay all their taxes.
Chavez may have gone too far
In exhuming Bolivar;
If you have to raise the dead,
Popularity has fled.
Andrew Jackson, he assumes,
Put poor Simon in the tombs;
Ars'nic was our Andy's choice
In bestilling Simon's voice.
Once again Chavez will show
That all gringos are the foe.
Do the people of Caracas
Really want to shun and mock us?
Fools and dictators alike
think in terms of Hitler's Reich.
Drawn to ruins as their exploit,
The Arts have come upon Detroit.
This wasted city now plays host
To arrivistes from the Coast.
In their tattered jeans begirt
Like dogs they roll upon the dirt.
Producing works unintegrated
That do not sell, though bargain-rated.
If your art is not adroit
Then please consider old Detroit!
