Category: verse

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Monkey Pox from the Spree

29 July 2022 — (meter stolen from Boudleaux & Felice Bryant)

I got schtupped real hard in Central Park.
The rave spilled out from the Ritz.
My boyfriend said, “You’re the best I’ve ever had.
Pay no attention to the zits.”

Pustulence! And weeping sores!
Now emerge on me!
Full blown Monkey Pox,
Get a fresh case from me!
Home grown Monkey Pox,
It can be yours for free!



17 May 2023 — (meter stolen from Sammy Cahn & Jimmy van Heusen)
Pits and asshole, pits and asshole,
Scrub ’em good so they won’t be a hassle,
To our tender senses!
Your poor hygiene can be offensive!
Try, try, try to do a good job,
It’s, so amazing.
You’ll find nothing’s so relaxing…
As, just bathing.
Oils and ointments, rubbing lotion,
Escape your troubles when you take the notion,
Of a brief vacation.
A soothing soak is medication!

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Bodega Blues

9 July 2022

(meter stolen from Richard Rodgers)

Blue Moon, I was a violent thug.
You left me writhing in pain,
and bleeding out on your rug.

My girlfriend wanted some Snack-Ums,
But her SNAP card had lost its charge.
The clerk said he could not help her,
So I thought I’d show him my dick was large!

update 220719: Murder charges against retail clerk Jose Alba, reports Assistant District Attorney Jennifer Sigall, have been dropped. As a fellow drug dealer, I sympathize with Alba’s position, having dealt with some disgruntled clientele myself, but am thankful never to have encountered anyone quite so angry and out of control as the late and little lamented Austin Simon or his entourage.

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Songs from the Twentieth Century

No Aitch in ’Arrigan (880614)
A! R! R-O-G! A-N-T spells arrogant!
I’m not the sort to slink away from an argument.
I’ve never cast an insult that I hadn’t meant.
A! R! R-O-G! A-N-T you see…
Call me names, play your games,
I am simply not ashamed!
Arrogant, that’s me!

Bob Vila (with a little salt and lime) (890629)
He knows how to hold a hammer,
He knows how to use a wrench.
He knows how to fix your toilet,
He knows how to build a fence.
He is so haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaandy!
He is so cleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeever!
He is so skiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiillful!
The hardest job to him’s a cinch!
BOB VILA!

El Presidente (891231)
(bomp bomp bomp bomp bomp bomp bomp bomp bomp bomp bomp bomp bomp)
(bomp bomp bomp bomp bomp bomp bomp bomp bomp bomp bomp bomp bomp)
El Presidente, grab us some land, (bomp bomp bomp bomp)
The opportunity’s too close at hand,
To pass the chance to annex the isthmus
And have a flag with sixty stars next Christmas.
El Presidente, don’t let us down, (bomp bomp bomp bomp)
Our Latin brothers don’t need one more clown.
You tweaked the nose of ol’ Noriega,
Now kick the butt of Tovarisch Ortega!
El Presidente, if you are bold, (bomp bomp bomp bomp)
Central America would be ours to hold.
We’d water ski on Lake Nicaragua,
And in Managua dance La Cucaracha!
El Presidente, here is the scheme, (bomp bomp bomp bomp)
We’ll face the future and Jefferson’s dream.
Let’s expand the U S A!
El Presidente, what do you say

Liberty and Enterprise (891225)
All Soviet and Socialist Republics fall apart,
The time has come to drop the gun, Berlin is just the start.
Let Latvia, et al, secede, retire the Warsaw Pact,
And Liberty, and Enterprise, supplant the Five Year Plan

Hadenov (900111)
(from the musical comedy political allegory stage play CARAMBA!
Featuring Nikita Hadenov of the Café’ Amerikanski, a KGB front operation, in newly independent Caramba, lost in space between French Guiana and Suriname, and lost in time between North Korea and Iceland)

I was born when Kruschev came to power.
The very model of Soviet Boyhood, I!
I grew and watched the Brezhnev Doctrine flower,
Saw freedom die.
We’ve had enough — of Soviet perfidy!
We’ve had enough — of assaults on liberty!
When tanks rolled into Prague it was dismaying.
The early Czech Spring turned to bitter frost.
New hopes were dashed by old men who were graying,
Young lives were lost.
We’ve had enough — of endless five year plans!
We’ve had enough — of Brave New Soviet Man!
Leonid succumbed to influenza,
At a ripe old age in 1982.
Then from out behind the veiled credenza,
Chernenko grew!
We’ve had enough — of gerontocracy!
We’ve had enough — mindless bureaucracy!

Wouldn’t it Be Tyranny (900114)
All I want is a tank or three,
A fleet of MIGs and an RPG.
Some troops who’ll die for me,
Oh wouldn’t it be milit’ry?
Plenty of taxes to collect,
And for life President Elec’t.
A marble monument,
Oh let it be, democracy!

Kai Hu (920929)
A writer who cannot spell
Inspires confidence
Like a speaker saying, “Uh.”

High Coup (921103)
Once there was a Nipponese chap,
Couldn’t stand to listen to rap.
“Everyone knows that rap’s crap!”
So one day he just snapped,
Now he writes hai ai ai ku, he writes hai ai ai ku.
He says konichiwah ah ah ichi bah ah ahn ku!
So if you’re seeking elegance, style, and form
That towers over the norm,
Grab a pen, you won’t regret it.
Once you start, you can’t forget it.
It writes itself if you just let it come through.
Hai ku!

French Fries (940301)
(“Daddy, sing me a song.”  Coolin’ our heels at Mickey D’s during one of Drama Queen‘s many medical misadventures, my daughter challenged me to a little impromptu entertainment.)
French fries!
Get some French fries!
They’re the greasy carbohydrate treat.
With a — little ketchup,
They’re the side dish that just can’t be beat.
When you — go for burgers and a shake,
It would — be a terrible mistake,
To for — get the French fries, it’s —
A faux pas non pareil,
An error vile,
To forget the fries!
Don’t — forget the fries, or you will be —
With — out — the carbohydrate treat!
French Fries!

Fred’s Lament (950505)
If I were a Flintstone
(yabba dabba dabba dabba dabba, yabba dabba doo)
I would work all day for Mr Slate,
With my buddy Barney, too!
I’d come home to Wilma,
She’d have brontosaurus burgers waiting on the barbecue!
Play with Dino and my daughter Pebbles,
Change her diapers, filled with poo!
I’d go out with Barney,
To a meeting of the Lodge of the Water Buffalo!
We’d drink grog and dance until the dawn,
Wake up feeling mighty low!

960326
He’s ferociously precocious,
and his fashion sense is atrocious,
All the girls
think he’s a square,
he’s got
Eddie Munster hair.

P.O.W. (In which I try to be Leonard Cohen — 960712)
Sweets and flowers just don’t last
My love for you is not that fast.
It’s a hard, enduring thing.
It’s perpetual.
Stone and metal, craf’d with care
Doesn’t touch me where you stare.
My soul was taken unaware,
And I’m grateful.

Barbecue a Chicken (980614)
When you’re hungry for some flavor,
And you want some meat to savor,
And you want a treat that’s finger-lickin’
(Bock bock bock bock)
Just fire up the grill and then you’ll
Make the meal that makes the menu!
Baaaaaaaaar-be-cue a chicken!
(Bock bock bock bock)
Baaaaaaaaar-be-cue a chicken!
(Bock baaaaaaack!)

Chicken Chimichanga (990909)
All new, chicken chimichanga, chicken chimichanga good for you!
And our chicken chimichanga, chicken chimichanga tastes great too!
With a little bit of salsa, and a spot of sour cream,
Our new chicken chimichanga, it tastes just like a dream.
All new chicken chimichanga, so good you’ll want to scream!
The freshest ingredients, no short cut expedients,
We purchase our produce every day.
It’s not unpredictable that it’s so delectable,
Delicious! Exquisite! Gourmet!
Fresh chicken, fresh peppers, sautéed in a skillet,
With a little onion too!
Our new chicken chimichanga, we’ll make them fresh for you!
All new chicken chimichanga, come in and buy a few!

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Conan the Librarian

11 May 2021 — with affection and gratitude to REH

Know O Scholar, that after the Works of Gutenberg,
and before the Rise of the Sons of Kindle,
that there was A Page Undreamed Of, printed and illuminated,
when leather bound and cheap paperbacks
vied for the attentions of avid readers.
Hither came Conan, an Autodidact,
with Gigantic References and Gigantic Card Catalogs,
to shush the Rubes who Chatter without respite and to
Softly Tread Between the Stacks in his Wing-tipped Feet.

Reflections on the Roster of Roberts
Everything I’ve read, or seen or heard or felt, has influenced me as a writer, as an actor, and as a human being.  That’s probably more or less how it works with most of us.  We’re complex, and our mentors are manifold.  It hadn’t occurred to me until recently that probably the strongest influences on me as a novelist all happened to be named Robert.  Other writers influence me, of course, Lethargy Lad has a great deal of Stan Lee in him, and when I’m waxing political I see myself as Mencken or Griggs, but when it comes to narrative fiction, I find the Roberts to be my steadiest guides.  (I flatter myself, of course.)  For tone, or voice, I try to channel Heinlein – suspicious, curmudgeonly, and relentlessly optimistic.  As well as goopily sentimental at times.  For narrative grace, I aim for Howard.  Though his vast catalogue of stories leans heavily on mundane or preposterous tropes, I find him to be among the most vividly lyrical of writers overall, holding his own against such luminaries as Shakespeare, Fielding, Poe, or Lewis.  Finally, for actual story structure, I think Altman is my man.  I try to tell a story mostly from the ground up, using a multitude of perspectives from disparate and distinctive characters, whose arcs ravel together into a broader story that none of them fully knows, and many will never suspect.

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Adventures in Bad Lyrics, vol. I

8 August 2015 – “Do you you feel like I do” that in “this ever changing world in which we live in” that Peter Frampton and Paul McCartney may well be the worst lyricists in the history of getting paid for it? Mick Jones comes close.

“Viva Agora,” says I, and “Hear hear!” and “Tell it, brother!” Maybe I’m a little too sensitive to bad lyrics, as they can interfere with my appreciation of otherwise enjoyable tunes. This is why I am most grateful currently to Choice Inns and their advertisers’ recent co-option of the formerly execrable “Shall I Snivel or Shall I Moan?”. A plaintive lament that not only misses the obvious point, and therefore asks the wrong question, but asks it over and over and over. (C’mon Mick, think this one through. If you left there would be trouble. If you stayed it would be double. ARITHMETIC HAS SOLVED YOUR PROBLEM!) I would (and still do) cringe whenever it comes out of public audio. Now, however, when I hear that “Class reunion’s coming fast” while indulging in mindless video, I actually attend and enjoy. So again I say, “Viva Agora!” (and “Please John, help Paul with his lyrics.”)

2 February 2018 — Long time side hustle — delivering groceries and sundries to shut ins and the infirm. Had a bit of a scare last year. Loyal clients, Lena and Percival (Do NOT call him “Percy”) Whitney, reported that Whit had lip cancer, allegedly from his years of “dippin’ chew.” He’s outta the woods now, minus that tumor, parts of his lip and jaw, and four teeth. But otherwise cancer free. Now my quandary: Whit’s renewed his customary order, two logs a week, long cut, straight (“tobacco flavored!”), but Lena’s giving me grief over “enabling him.”
Look, he’s expecting delivery on his front deck tomorrow morning,
so you tell me:
Al-though… His wife… Wants him to quit,
Should I leave Whit chew? …
update 190716:  “That’s why I got chew on my my eend!”

5 February 2018
I’ve been struggling to make this song sound right.
But every thing I scrawl is tiresome, weak, and trite.
Perhaps it’s time to quit, and maybe say “Good night.”
Then I’ll revisit this in the morning light.
How many lines do you think I should end with “you?”
Do you think that ten is a bit too few?
Should I check my thesaurus and find a clue?
Or scrap this mess and start anew?
What’s a lad to do, when nothing rhymes with “you?”
It’s a task I rue, ‘cause nothin’ rhymes with “you.”

3 March 2018 — Los Angeles is clearly both a discotecque and a country club.
Furthermore, four out of five happy shiny people are holding other happy shiny people. One of them is holding a happy shiny person holding hands, and that one is holding nothing but hands.
And now that we’ve got that straight, is it the “hippy hippy shake”
or the “hippy shake shake?”

“Adventures in Bad Lyrics” is sponsored by The Confederate Mint (purveyors of metallic securities in gold, silver, copper, and lead).  For sample sheets of Metallic Certificates (total face value One Tenth Silver Dollar) send One Silver Dime plus a self-addressed stamped envelope; or Four United States Legal Tender Federal Reserve “Dollars” in scrip, check, or money order, to Greigh Area Associates, c/o Gene Greigh //  401 Rio Concho Drive, #105;  San Angelo, Texas;  76903

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Secular Hymns

17 April 2021

Proper “secular hymns” are few and far between, so sometimes I have to accept small compromises in some of the lyric or music quality.  But if it otherwise meets my criteria, I am eager to embrace it. 

When it comes to “spirituality” I guess you could say that I’m a Dawkinsian.  As an atheist materialist, I am neither depressed by, nor resentful of, my mortality.  I don’t approve of it, either, but I get it; it’s the way entropy works on Earth.  If it weren’t so, I wouldn’t exist in the first place.  Still, like Richard Dawkins, I’m not depressed because I have to die, I’m delighted that I get to die, because that means that I have LIVED.  I was one of the lucky few who manifested a consciousness from this organic soup, and I get to experience a tiny fraction of the wonders of the universe.  Even if our parents are intent on procreating, assuming they ever meet, the odds against us are still billions to one.

For me, a proper secular hymn captures that aspect of our existence.  As we are poised between existence and oblivion, between civilization and savagery, between mud and mind, between matter and spirit – may we experience joyous gratitude for it all.  And while Johnny Cash, as a professed Christian himself, may not fully endorse my interpretation of his work, I have no hesitation in recommending it.

Herewith, selections from the “official”
Secular Hymnal of Matthew 6:6 Ministries,
as selected and fully endorsed by Rector Lawrence,

Flesh and Blood, by Johnny Cash (1970)

Beside a singing mountain stream, where the willow grew,
Where the silver leaf of maple sparkled in the morning dew.
I braided twigs of willow, made a string of buckeye beads.
But flesh and blood needs flesh and blood, and you’re the one I need.

I leaned against a bark of birch and I breathed the honey dew.
I saw north bound flock of geese against a sky of baby blue.
Beside the lily pads I carved a whistle from a reed,
Mother Nature’s quite a lady, but you’re the one I need.

A cardinal sang just for me, and I thanked him for the song,
And the sun went slowly down the west and I had to move along.
These were some of the things on which my mind and spirit feed,
But flesh and blood needs flesh and blood, and you’re the one I need.

So, when the day was ended, I was still not satisfied,
For I knew everything I touched, would wither and would die.
And love is all that will remain and grow from all these seeds,
Mother Nature’s quite a lady, but you’re the one I need.
Flesh and blood needs flesh and blood, and you’re the one I need.

Material Girl, by Peter Brown & Robert Rans (1984)

Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me, I think they’re okay.
If they don’t give me proper credit I just walk away.
They can beg and they can plead but they can’t see the light, that’s right!
Because the boy with the cold hard cash is always Mr Right.
‘Cause we are living in a material world and I am a material girl.

Some boys romance, some boys slow dance, that’s all right with me,
If they can’t raise my interest, then I have to let them be.
Some boys try and some boys lie, but I don’t let them play, no way!
Only boys that save their pennies make my rainy day.
‘Cause we are living in a material world, and I am a material girl.

Boys may come and boys may go and that’s all right you see.
Experience has made me rich and now they’re after me.
‘Cause everybody’s living in a material world and I am a material girl.

Something Tame and Something Wild,
by Mary Chapin Carpenter (2016)

There’s a shoebox full of letters, bound up neatly with some twine.
Each one was like a diamond, now the jewel is lost to time.
My reward is in the knowing that I held it in my hands for a little while.
What else is there but the treasures in your heart,
Something tame and something wild.

For every time that I’d been foolish when I wished that I’d been wise.
The power of regret still gets me right between the eyes.
Sometimes I want to weep with nothing but the tears of a little child.
What else is there but the lessons of your heart,
Something tame and something wild.

There’s a map I’ve memorized of everywhere I’ve ever been,
And the faces of everyone I’ve loved and left to try again,
I couldn’t make out what they were saying,
So instead, I listened hard to what’s inside.
What else is there but the voice inside your heart,
Something tame and something wild?

Some nights I’m woken up by something stirring in my chest,
It’s a feeling I’ve no name for, it’s hard to catch my breath.
I’m staring down the great big lonesome,
As I’m listening for the dwindling of time.
What else is there but the echoes in your heart,
Something tame and something wild.

So the things that matter to me now are different from the past,
I care less about arriving than just being in the path
Of some life carved out of nothing,
The way it feels when the universe has smiled.
What else is there but the beating of your heart,
Something tame and something wild.

There’s a shoebox full of letters, there’s the map I won’t forget,
The voices and the lessons and the signals that connect us
Manifestly to the spirit way deep down where it goes unseen by the eye.
What else is there but the love inside your heart,
To a life, like a fireworks to a spark, over and above you in its arc,
Something tame and something wild.

disclaimers:  These authors quoted above are not being compensated (beyond publicity) for my inclusion of their works here.   (If you like it, buy their stuff!)

more?
The Long Way Home, by Mary Chapin Carpenter
The Greatest Love, by Jane Olivor
Sing!, by Joe Raposo
Oh Very Young, by Cat Stevens (aka Yusef Israel)

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That’ll Learn Me!

3 April 2021

CONGRATULATIONS!

Your submission (of 11 January) “Love is in the Air” has been selected by a panel of 3 Judges as the CTN Short Story 2021 runner-up contest winner. Your award includes:
1. $100 Amazon Digital Gift Card (emailed upon receipt of attached permission/information)
2. Interview/Story published on the CTN website (upon receipt of responses to question/permission found attached
3. Free Book Consultation (must be scheduled) In order to receive your award package, you must respond and return the attached information to justwrite@ctnbooks.com by MARCH 24th 2021.
If we do not receive the return document by this date,
your award will be forfeited. If you have any questions,
please contact us at the aforementioned address.
Again Congratulations! CTN Administrator

Let this be a lesson to me. E-mail is not ENTIRELY bad news and trauma, unless I’m too a-scared to look. Then I miss stuff. Like otherwise good news or deadlines. My response to them:
“I am delighted to learn this ON THE THIRD of APRIL. So… tough break for me, at least in re the hundred bucks! Please feel free to publish it anyway. If a story is any good then it shouldn’t matter whether the author is still alive or gets paid. It’s supposed to be about the story, right? So… where may I see it in print, and how do I purchase copies?

Who would have thought that e-mail could actually be used for something useful or profitable? Well, demonstrably, it still can’t! Anyway… the “winner” in question:

Love is in the Air
MMXI
(Ever wish you could live in a musical comedy? 
No you didn’t.  You know better.)

God I hate spring.  Every year it seems to get worse. 

          I was standing in the middle of the fountain in the middle of the square in the middle of town in the middle of April when I came to.  I was standing with my feet spread wide and I was holding this strange woman.  Startled by my own dawning awareness, I dropped her, and she splashed loudly at my feet.

          She had no beef with me.  I was no more responsible for her dunking than she was.  There’s no telling how wet we might have gotten during the spontaneous production.  I should be the least of her complaints.

          She came up sputtering and looking a little lost.

          The Restoration Crew, resplendent in their powder blue uniforms and shining nickel plated helmets, rushed into the square as I helped her to her feet.  I tried to apologize for dropping her, but she predictably brushed me off – bad enough to find oneself in an intimate embrace with a stranger, no need to prolong the awkwardness.

          A young officer stopped by the edge of the fountain as we made our way out.  “Any injuries here?” he asked.

          I looked at my impromptu dance partner and she shook her head.

          “Nah.  I guess we’re good here, Officer, thanks.”  After he bustled off to tend to other possibly distressed dancers in our ephemeral troupe, I turned back to my erstwhile companion and attempted to apologize again.  I’m new to the city so I guess I’m a little less jaded about all this.

          “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she said, shaking her head slowly, trying still to dislodge the cobwebs in her mind.  “There’s no telling what might happen during one of these numbers.  I guess we’re lucky we’re just wet.  We could’ve danced our way into traffic.”

          “Brrr…”  I shivered from both the cold wind across my drenched trousers and the thought of spontaneous choreography taking us into the oncoming lorries.  Their heavy magnetic shielding may protect drovers from getting caught up in song, but it also necessarily obstructs operators’ views.  All those blind spots don’t help much when some hapless civilian blunders into the road.  “Ouch.  Grease spot is the word,” I agreed.  “That is one nasty way to paint someone’s wagon.”  She smiled and nodded as she wrung out her skirt.

          It’s a good thing, I guess, that there are more suicides in December than in April.  Also that depression is generally less infectious than infatuation.

          Infatuation is wonderful but it’s also the worst.  Things are only new when they’re new, after all, and when infatuation fades it leaves either true enduring love or near mortal embarrassment.  In the meantime, however, it has such empathic potency as to draw disinterested strangers into its orbit.  Collateral damage, some call it.  A bleeding nuisance, says I.  Compulsive choreography kills more innocents than drunk driving, these days.  Cities are getting too big.  If it weren’t for economies of scale, ease of communication, and other wholesome market phenomena, no one (excepting hopeless romantics) would put up with this crap – in spite of the intense reverie one feels during compulsory terpsichore.

          I checked my directional guide and started following the indicator to my case.  Naturally, it had its own little broadcast beacon.  Standard equipment these days.  After happy bums are finished tripping the light fantastic, they could easily abscond with strangers’ goods if we didn’t take such sensible precautions.

          A high pitched peep peep peeping alerted me to the near presence of my satchel so I switched off the beacon and started batting the bushes out of my way to reveal my reports and lunch still safely nested under the hedge.

          Not sure how late I was, I hopped the crosstown trolley, jumped off at the corner of Lerner and Loew, and raced into Hammerstein Centre in time to witness a proposal of marriage.

          Half an hour later I was again looking for my case as I tried to shake the fog out of my head.

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Appeals to Higher Powers

16 August 2021

correspondent KW avers that “almost every atheist” she knows has adopted “statism as their religion” whose adherents’ zeal exceeds others’.

Other correspondents confirm her observations, and JH concludes that “when people stopped believing in God they replaced it with the state.”

I thank KW for that “almost.” Broadly defined (including the occasional weaselly “agnostic” or trying-to-impress-chicks “Christian Existentialist” phases I may or may not have gone through) I have been a consistent atheist and anarchist for most of my life. Just never was in me to subordinate my ego to states or gods or teammates. As far as I can tell, theism and statism are both symptoms of the same emotional disorder — wishful thinking. I don’t believe that the magicks of either prayer or voting have any powers beyond the palliative.

30 July 2021
Gotta get me a paddle, and a canoe.
Gonna paddle myself right back to you!
Gonna paddle my ass ’til it’s black and blue,
And then maybe I’ll be worthy of you.

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On Scientism

27 April 2018 — “NASA is back!
You know what it is?  It’s great.  It’s science.  Important.”
Donal Ivan Fredovitch Trumpchev

5 February 2021

It is stipulated (generally by theists, miscalling atheists and agnostics) that “Scientism” is “the religious belief that is underpinned by faith in the scientific establishment,” and that it “has its own customs and nomenclature,” and clergy who “are known as ‘scientists.'” A particular proponent of this thesis also avers that “most believers don’t even know their own scripture.” On that latter point I cannot help but agree, probably in the matter of all faiths, let alone alleged “scientism.”

And no, they don’t mean “Scientologists.” The proponents make that clear as well. (I suspect they get credit for being seekers or something.) Their “scientismics” are those of us who buy into the moon landing or thermodynamics or vaccines or electricity or the heliocentric model. Especially the heliocentric model.

Contra their thesis, I would assert that very few (if any) actual scientists could be scientismics. Other than that one point, I’m happy to accept their definition. But it seems to me the real scientismics would be the troofers and the flerfers and the chemtrailers and others who would misuse the trappings of science to “support” fantasies like the flat earth or modern monetary theory.

update 210223: haunting suspicions enquire:
Is “flerfer” as offensive to flat earthers as “troofer” is to “9-11 Truthers?”
Or as funny as “magic bullet” is to the Deep State?

210317 — Vaccine! (meter stolen from Dolly Parton)

Vaccine!  Rapine!  It’s all obscene!
Please don’t shoot me up with RNA.
No unknown sera in my arm, I know you say it does no harm,
But you won’t say what side effects are seen.
Hank Aaron put it to the test, and now he takes his final rest,
But you can’t blame it on our great vaccine.
Ol’ Marvin Hagler took his shot, and with us further he is not,
But it’s because you skeptics are so mean!

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Que Sera Bob Lah

Liberty Carols (3 July 1990)

Sad King George the Third gave thought to the Revolution.
Would France intervene, he feared, in social evolution?
The traitors in the Colonies were kicking up a ruckus,
Shouting out their battle cry, “England shall not fuck us!”

Chicken roasting on a barbecue,
Sunburn peeling off your nose.
Cold beer bubbling in a twelve-ounce glass,
And beach sand sticking to your toes.
Everybody knows, a blanket and a volleyball,
Will draw the dudes and babes to you…
Sun splashed days, and a dip in the sea,
Will make a body feel brand new!

Que Sera Blah Blah (22 March 1996)
I had a hungry little girl, I asked her sweetly,
“What shall we eat? 
Should we have pretzels, should we have chips?”
Here’s what she said to me,
“Quesadillas, please! 
And make them with extra cheese. 
No salsa, it makes me sneeze.
Quesadillas please.”

9 August 2005 — Hot Tub! Bubblin’ Jacuzzi!
Roll up the eyeballs, take a little snoozie!
Hot Tub! Isn’t it a doozie?
Sit too long start to get a little woozy!
All day, slavin’ in the hot sun,
Soak up to your chin and listen to the pump hum!
C’m’on honey, don’t you fret!
We’ll get nekkid and we’ll get wet!
Have a ball, in the bubblin’ pot!
Do it all, while the water is hot!
Have a good time,
In the hot tub, the Jacuzzi!

“Uncertain Origin” (26 June 2010)
I don‘t know who wrote this but I like it. I found it recently, dated and in my hand, but not clearly quoted. I do not remember composing or transcribing it.
Buoys like crones, Rocking in their seats
And nodding to the rhythm of their lives.

“You Need Bob Loblaw” (5 June 2018)
( — or — Joanie Loves Litigation)
dedicated to lawyers and other sufferers of arrested development

If you got troubles,
If you got legal woes,
Just give a call to Bob Loblaw.
He’ll file your papers,
He’ll get your probate through,
You can rely on Bob Loblaw.

“Ow Ow Ooo, Ow Ow Ooo Ooo Ooo!”
You slipped and fell one day.
“Ow Ow Ooo, Ow Ow Ooo Ooo Ooo!”
Call Loblaw right away!

You’ll see — HOW — far your case goes,
When you work with Bob Loblaw.
You’ll see — HOW — much your purse grows,
They cough up for Bob Loblaw.

Sue the bastards,
Every cent they own,
With the help of Bob Loblaw.
From their mansions
To their mobile homes,
They’ll remember Bob Loblaw.

“Ow Ow Ooo, Ow Ow Ooo Ooo Ooo!”
For injunctions they will call!
{“Ow Ow Ooo, Ow Ow Ooo Ooo Ooo!”}
{ Is the refrain of Bob Loblaw. }
{……repeat and fade?……}

“For each Whitney and her own Special Bobby*) 11 July 2018
(* –or–  Rhianna gets it!  Just not hard or often enough, apparently.)

Oh, I wanna fight with somebody!
I wanna get hit by somebody,
Wanna get smacked by somebody,
Somebody who loves me enough to punch!

(If all she ever wanted was Moe, she should probably have told him.)
(Is a smoke no longer a smoke?  Is groovin’ no longer groovin’?)
(Who’s been wasting his time time laughing laughing with his friends?)

“The Nattering Spokesmodels) (28 April 2019)
meter (and some lyrics) stolen from Paul Henning

Come and listen to my story ‘bout gal named Jed,
Whose right wing opinions are rarely left unsaid,
She takes her position on the couch with Pete and Griff
To add a touch o’ color to a couple o’ stiffs.
(Jenkins, right? Hegseth, too.)

On The View mean Joy tried to put her in her place
Because she wouldn’t kowtow to the hustlers of race.
She thinks that people should be judged just by their deeds,
With no thought given to imaginary needs.
(EBT? Food Stamp Cards? SNAP it up!)

Well, then, Fox News said to soar along with us
And leave those losers just a-chokin’ on yer dust!
(Bile, that is. Jealousy.)

(intermezzo)

And now it’s time to brace ourselves for Jedediah’s spin,
And thank our loyal viewers for always tuning in.
You’re all encouraged every week to watch on your TV,
And get a heapin’ helpin’ of our ideology.
(Neo-con. Regime change. Ya’ll watch out now, y‘hear?)

(13 March 2020) Wuhan Flu®, fears of pandemic,
What to do? Stock up or panic?
We’ll get through this epidemic,
Wuhan Flu is asymptomatic!

First you get a tickle in your throat and then you sneeze.
Your eyes begin to water, and congestion makes you wheeze.
Fatigue and then the nausea will drive you to your knees.
And as your fever rises, we can hear your frantic pleas:
“It isn’t MY Corona®!
“Whuh — whuh — whuh — Why Corona®?”

“Particular Pupil” (17 April 2020)
She loves the harsh way that you reprimand her,
She loves the way you scold her, too-oo.
She won’t take correction from ‘nybody else,
She loves nobody else’ butt chew!

Anal Swab (22 May 2020)
(meter stolen from Richard Rodgers & Oscar Hammerstein)
Anal swab, anal swab, CoViD™ microbes are sneaky!
In my nose, I suppose, but why must technicians poke me?
Virus of Wuhan so small and tight,
In my rectum far out of sight.
Anal swab, anal swab, leering nurses can eat me.

“Din Geisel” (21 July 2020)
I am not like you Doctor Strange.
Not in my home nor on the range.
I fail to master magic spells,
Those noxious brews and horrid smells.
I cannot hack your incantations.
Necromantic imprecations
Awe the likes of Wong and Clea.
But mispronounced exhortations
Give mortal fools cause to fea’

“Wondervision”  (8 August 2020)
He crafts polychrome progressions for each song!
With those syncopated rhythms
He just can’t go wrong!
The music’s hot!
The lyric’s tight!
He keeps me dancin’ through the night!
I just can’t get.  E-nough of.  Stevie!