Verse

She had a way about her, a fluid easy grace,
At home in total comfort anywhere she cared to be
Gliding languidly through life, no worry on her face
And handling every situation with adept facility.

Her legs were long and elegant, her neck and arms were too.
And when I shook her hand I was afraid her wrist might snap.
She looked so cultured, and so it surprised me, it is true,
When right there in the hall she squatted down and took a crap.

At night I go a-hunting out in the hotel court,
But not for moose or stag, oh no, my game is of another sort.
I go in search of crickets, and grasshoppers and such,
And also cockroaches, because my turtle likes them oh so much.
With joy she bites their legs off, eviscerates with glee,
And gulping up their grayish guts she looks so gratefully at me,
My heart is moved to mushiness, so happy seems my charge,
And I'll no doubt be fortunate to see her grow so very large.
She's not a loving animal, her blood, of course, is cold.
But still, how warming it will be to see her growing very old
So nights I go a-hunting out in the hotel court,
But not for elk or deer, oh no, my game is not a game of sport.

"A savior," said the wise man,
"A leader there need be."
And then the whirlwinds whirled
And Winsome Wendel walked out of the sea.

He wore a smirk of courage,
Of true solidity,
And when he spoke his speech
Was sparkling, spry with spontaneity.

"My name," he said, "is Wendel.
I'm new to your country.
And I have hopes to help you heal
Your heartless hate and bigotry."

He looked so proud and dauntless,
And so surprised was he
When all the people picked up pikes
And poked their points through his body.

I talked to God some days ago. I told him, "God, I must believe
That there are things you cannot know, like how it feels to truly grieve."

He said in such a quiet voice, "My son, of sadness, I know all.
For what is Godly might but choice? And choices drive me up the wall.
I may be powerful, you see, but also I am my own limit.
All creation's part of me, but I must make each thing within it.

Green and red, and round, and flat: my will is free, but I must choose
What is a falsehood, what is fact... since all things can't be both, I lose.

And so you'll find I do know pain, because of everything I've got,
For each time that I choose to gain, I lose hat I decide I'm not.

Therefore each option that I spurn contributes to my Godly taint:
I am what Is, yes still I learn: there's less that is than is that ain't."

I don't believe you love me. I don't believe you can.
I don't believe you've ever known that feeling for a man.

I think you think you do. And that thought makes me sad:
That you can't feel or miss the warmth of what you never had.

You'll say it isn't true. You'll say I speak from spite.
But I would not expect you to agree that I am right.

You act as though you love. But actions come quite cheap,
When they are born of feelings which at base aren't very deep.

It's had to tell you this. I know you cannot see
That what you think is love is something shallower to me.

It isn't that you lie. You simply do not know
The depth reached by the roots of love though bright its bloom may grow.

We had a lovely time. It hurt so much to part.
And we would still be friends if you had real love in your heart.

We sadly though cannot, for suddenly I find
That to a true and lasting love you are completely blind.

The child came crying to the world, three wise men gathered round.
The first one was the father, beaming with paternal pride.
The next the obstetrician in his blue surgical gown,
And then the cook who said, "you want that baby boiled, or fried?"

The father and his wife exchanged a quick a knowing look,
A mutual cognition of which course would most delight.
Then gazing at the writing babe they both turned to the cook.
The father gently said, "sautéed." The cook replied, "all right."

The obstetrician took a seat (for his job was now done),
To watch the cook assembling all the tools to do the job.
A giant skillet was produced, a small campfire begun,
And soon hot butter's sizzling sounds drowned out the infant's sobs.

Which cries became sharp screams as he was laid into it flat
But quick enough they ceased, and were replaced by such a smell
Of tender cooking meat and melting bubbling baby fat
And spices, for the cook knew how to season children well.

The three spectators watched the chef remove it from the heat
And bring it to the table, set with sharp clean carving shears.
He cut it into tidy bits of tender glistening meat:
A moment they'd awaited for three quarters of a year.

The obstetrician claimed his fee, the tender shriveled head,
The cook then took his share, the infant's supple, crunchy spine,
Then gave one half to mother, sitting gaily up in bed,
The father gathered up the rest, and all began to dine.

The sweet repast was savored by the three men and the mother
The cook collected all the plates and cooking tools and then
He and the doctor took their leave in order that the others
Might start the process going to provide a meal again.

To slather baste a slimy paste of mucky sludgy foamy goo,
To blatter down, from toe to crown, my insides out all over you,
To gum you up in phlegmy phlup and drown you in cascades of bile,
My guts to purge, and you submerge, and smiling, smiling all the while.

The worst that I can say about your famous homemade stew
Is that its flavor will forever bring back memories of you.
The best that I can say about your special fricassee
Is that it tastes like a concocted mash of feces, sweat and pee.

Never once in my lifetime has it come to be
That I ran into someone who looked just like me.
But if just such a someone I ever do see,
I shall kill him, and live on as though I were he.

I made a wish upon a star a-twinkling above,
In hopes that it would hear me and provide me with a love.
But then I saw it moving, drifting fast across the night;
It seems that I had cast my wish upon a satellite.

So then I chose another gleaming pinpoint in the sky
And prayed for an eternal love to last until I die.
Just then a passing stranger quite familiar with the stars
Informed me that I'd cast my wish upon the planet Mars.

So gazing upward to the Moon I opened wide my heart,
And pleaded for a love from whom I'd never need to part.
That should have done the job, but I'd not finished wishing yet,
For not ten minutes later I saw that the Moon had set.

And when the heavens filled with clouds and all the air with rain,
I begged that they might somehow end my long and lonely pain.
No sooner had I finished than there came the violent sound
Of thunder, and a bolt of lightning felled me to the ground.

Soon after, dawn had broken and the sky had turned to blue.
I asked the Sun to please allow my wishes to come true.
I stared into it deeply, so that it might read my mind,
And how did it reward me? I've now gone completely blind.

Twas thus I learned to never ask the sky to mend my woes,
But from whom else can I request assistance? Heaven knows!

Afloat, awash, adrift, alone, a study in the relative:
To learn what I cannot condone, and without what I cannot live.

A big bright bang has led, they say, to clearly detailed, ordered matter.
But I cannot feel it this way, to me, it's clearly all a-scatter.

The ink a shiny drying black,
the thoughts behind: a shadowed grey,
the page: a yellowed white

If words could be but taken back,
or heard in their intended way,
all could be put to right.

But now she's gone and will not hear
the sentiment I'd have her know,
the type more aptly set.

Such ink dries firm without a smear
Against the paper's brilliant glow.
The page, it yellows yet.

The sea cucumber has no heart, and likewise lacks a brain.
It therefore can enjoy no art, but likewise feels no pain.
It creeps along the ocean floor, just eating sand and dirt,
And though its life may be a bore, this creature feels no hurt.
It cares not for the pretty reefs or for the teeming fishes,
Stuck in a world without beliefs, perceptions, dreams or wishes.
It simply occupies the sea in constant semi-slumber.
How pleasant it must be to be a simple sea cucumber!

You hammer out your purpose in the comfort of your head,
But those thoughts'll get you nothing lest you use em 'fore you're dead.
For though a goal is still of value if it's unapplied,
It's better to avail yourself of it before you've died.
Or else the epitaph of you your survivors will know
Is that you didn't get there, but you knew where you should go.

I thought I had it all worked out,
That I could not learn any more.
But then I met you and I found
I hadn’t known what life was for.

I thought my lot was pretty good,
My days were full of fun and luck.
Until you came along and moved me
I didn’t know that I was stuck.

All that I had learned to value
All that I had striven toward
Now seems to me a lifetime wasted
You are my one true reward.

Good-bye, pure days of idle fancy
So long, vast times of ill-spent youth
I now have better things ahead:
My love has taught me love’s sweet truth.

We shared our deep-felt valentines ten years ago today
While camping in the shadow of the Arbre de Ténéré.
Our life was such adventure then, out in the gorgeous world,
And still is, because through it all you're still my gorgeous girl.

The time rolls by much quicker than I'd truly like it to,
Its speed and my reluctance both because I live with you:
You make of life a pleasure, treasure, gliding easily past,
I savor it each moment, though those moments fleet too fast.

I'm lucky in their bounty, sharing each all day together,
So easy, bonded, effortless, I'll tire of it never.
You're truly my deep soulmate, cellmate, lifemate, lovemate, friend,
And as through our continuing adventure's world we wend,

I want you always conscious of my always frame of mind:
It's not just once a year: you're my *forever* valentine.

Each year this day I'm grateful for our life,
The more so that I've such an awesome wife
(And also by the way the days between
Are each the greatest day I've ever seen)
Because of you, so full of love and fun,
Our vie: jolie: just you, me, and our son.
A team, exploring this wide world together,
A dream, to live and dream about forever.
Some days I just cannot believe my stars
To share with you a life as fun as ours.
Until we're old and frail and wearing dentures,
We wend our way through worlds of wild adventures.
A life to die for, loving, intertwined,
The earth, our boy, and we two Valentines.

By morning’s light each new dawn fresh reveals
That with you I get yet another day.
And obviously I like how that feels:
It makes me want to shout “I’m Sarah’s! Yay!”
Our life together here in Montcaret
Is pure adventure, which is what we sought.
Our free time fills with work, but work is play,
And life is love: the lessons I’ve been taught.
Although sometimes with obstacles it’s fraught,
In hindsight every day is filled with joy
That daily to such treasure I am brought:
Our life, our love, our wondrous magic boy.
My love is gold you’ve polished to a shine.
It’s all for you, my gorgeous Valentine.

2007

The thing I like ‘bout Thai beach days, there’s nothing much to do,
And so I can just focus on the time I spend with you.
Another year has rolled around to quatorze February,
That famous day upon which once I asked if we could marry.

That seems so long ago, so much has changed for us since then,
Yet one proud truth stays permanent: you’re still my bestest friend.
Life can be fun or scary, wild or placid, straight or strange,
But through it all, that most important thing remains unchanged.

We had a boy and hoped we wouldn’t too much settle down.
We bought a house, but didn’t want to get too stuck in town.
And now I think the jury’s in, I can say without censure
That life with you keeps on being a cracking fun adventure.

The years of love accumulate, the time goes by so fast,
But duh: it flies when having fun, and life with you’s a blast.
I wouldn’t think to trade it, so much fun we have together,
And when’s it gonna stop? Uh, lemme think about it. Never!

The Tènèrè and London, Baja, Singapore, and Ullapool:
Four continents are listed, which I think is pretty hella-cool.
And this year’s February: sand and water: Koh Samet.
A fun-filled life of fun-filled days and more fun to have yet.

We share our lives completely, mine is yours and yours is mine,
And so we also share this thought: I Love You, Valentine!

As I look back upon a year today
We had so many hopes and dreams and plans
A house, a home, a place to nest and stay
A little paradise in southern France.

Our home and magic boy are both such fun
Though sometimes also trying, this is true.
But every drop of love we give our son
And give our home, we give each other too.

We've done a lot, and there's much more to do,
But by and large we've very well progressed
Although at times it's hard for me and you,
I'd still call the whole "so far" a success.

The house, the boy, they're joyous, wondrous, fine,
But you make life complete, sweet Valentine.

Yet another year has passed with loving fun-filled days
Each one of which you have improved in loving fun-filled ways.
You give so much laughter and joy, my loving fun-filled wife,
You are the key to living such a loving fun-filled life.

Four years ago today we camped out in the wide Sahara,
Three years ago I flew to London, just to see my Sarah.
Two years ago today I asked you if we two could marry.
Last year we met orangutans, quite extra-ordinary.

My point, my love, is that our life together is so rich
Of love and laughter and adventure, every shred of which
Grows more delicious with the years, like beautiful red wine.
Oh Sarah, you’re my love, my life, my precious Valentine.

While you sleep, Sarah, Kepler by your side,
I watch you, and I see what I adore.
Looking at you with him fills me with pride.
Life has a purpose. This is what it’s for.
You are the finest love and firmest friend
Of my whole life, dear Sarah, and we know:
Until we die that passion cannot end.
My future’s thus assured of love’s sweet glow.
And so I do not feel the need to say
Repeatedly: “O be my Valentine,”
Real love has taken that sad need away.
Year after year, and day by day, you’re mine.
Maybe one question is still left to ask:
Each line’s first letter should complete that task.
?

Together in the Ténéré,
We hugged a year ago today,
And there I wrote a minor ode
Expounding just how much I owed
My happiness to you, my dear.
And now, ker-zap, another year
Has gone, but still, my love, I find,
You ever-present in my mind.
It’s said that time erodes all things,
That nothing lasts, that fate’s mood swings,
But I can easily pooh-pooh
The theories, because I have you,
And your love proves to me each day
That there’s one truth time can’t decay.
There have been changes, yessirree,
But none that could take you from me.
Some bad guys wrecked lower New York,
Snowboarding’s an Olympic sport,
But shake the buildings or the earth,
Our passion still holds all its worth,
And in our hands a card dealt wild:
We’re gonna have a you-me child!
Just more cement to bind us tight
A bonus toward our future bright,
A living token of our love,
Dropped by a stork from high above.
Our life keeps moving, there’s no doubt,
But fuel it cannot move without,
And we have got a life’s supply:
A friendship deep ‘tween you and I..
AND SO, I’d best cut to the quick,
And reach the crux of all this shtick:
It seems like just a day has passed,
Since I asked you this question last:
O luscious loving lerv-o-mine,
D’y’wanna be my Valentine?

I hope you don’t mind my recalling (since I aim to please ‘ya)
That we two met five years ago, in Indonesia.
Then we saw Australia, and it wasn’t very long
Before we came together once again, but this time in Hong Kong.
We then set off together, although nearly without means,
To journey fun and happy in the central Philippines.
Our next trip was to Africa, but twice you got too sick,
So to make up for that a trip to India did the trick.
And then I came to visit you, and you visited me,
And now we’re back in Africa, as happy as can be.
Two days ago we hugged each other in the Ténéré,
And got to Bilma, which required driving a long way.
Then yesterday we walked together, strolling hand-in-hand
Along the crested dunes of Bilma’s Erg (it’s oh-so grand).
So now today as in the desert light we two still bask
There is a question quite important, which I’d like to ask:
Oh, darling love, tonight amid the desert sand so fine,
Please will you, would you, could you be my desert valentine?

You are a vegetarian, so moral and so pure.
You don’t eat beef or pork or veal or mutton.
But you were born in Scotland, and your mother, I am sure,
Fed haggis to you through your belly-button.
But now upon reflection, I am sure I’ve seen you eat
The flesh of animals without tut-tutin’...
You obviously have experience at eating meat,
E’er since that haggis passed your belly button.
Pragmatic vegetarian! And against any dish,
Neither your mind nor mouth you’re ever shuttin’
And that’s because prenatally it was your mother’s wish
That you eat haggis through your belly button.

Your Hair it glistens oh so bright and shimmery and fine,
I think that there beneath your hair must be a real gold mine.
And so I’d like to ask you while you are right now still living,
To have your head, so that, once dead, your wealth might keep on giving.
It seems plain wasteful to ignore a golden river flowing,
Since as we’re told by legends old, past death hair keeps on growing.
Don’t think this means that I might try to hasten your life’s end,
For as you know (I’ve told you so), dear Sarah, you’re my friend.
I’d do the same for you, but my dark hair deprives ability,
So sign your will, and feel the thrill of funding my senility.

Your taste is quite superb, that much is plain to see.
How do I know you have good taste? Because, dear, you love me!
And what gives you your taste, was it taught when you were young?
Oh, no, it’s all quite chemical: your taste lives in your tongue.

Dear Sarah, you’re an angel, and all angels like to fly.
But where you should have wings, instead you’ve human scapulae.
However at the moment you’ve no need of other things,
Because we are in love, and love, dear Sarah, gives us wings

There is a part of you I love, though I might not show taste
In mentioning it, for, you see, it houses liquid waste.
It manages your urine (and your urine I love too,
But not so well, since it is only temporary you)...
No, this organ is permanent, its loss you need not fear,
And that is good, because without it, you could not drink beer,
Or orange juice or water or tequila, triple sec:
For liquids, true, are yummy, but at last they must collect,
To be expelled as urine. Simple, right? But there’s a catch:
You need a place to keep it, somewhere, also, that can stretch.
‘Cause if it weren’t flexible, but held your urine tight,
You’d need to use the ladies’ room like fifty times a night!
And so each time that you reflect on it, you should be gladder
That you have got an oft-expanding urine-leak-proof bladder.

When yobbish brits make sexist hits which make all romance seem a farce,
Their yobbish way is oft to say, “Ey-oop, love, that’s a luffly arse.”
The Aussies, then, to be your friend, will use a different rule of thumb:
They’ll buy you beers, and then say, “Chias! (And boy the woy, that’s quoit a bum!”
Yanks think they’re smooth: they try to soothe your ego without bring crass.
Thus you’d be sent the compliment, “Oh, my, you have a shapely ass!”
But me, well I, I’m much too shy, to proffer phrases of such kind.
I gulp and stutter, then I mutter, “that’s a nice, ah-um, behind.”

They curl to beckon me to come, and that I like a lot.
They slink into your sinuses, and thus retrieve your snot.
They let you play the piano, flute, the bass, the valve trombone,
They help you make a signature, to get a nice bank loan.
Without them, like a leper, you’d be only fit to beg,
You couldn’t even scratch your head, your ass, my back, your leg.
They’re ever-oh-so useful, pulling triggers, setting traps,
And shaking hands with Africans, they make delightful snaps.
It’s hard to get a grip on just how utile they can be,
But without them, you’d nevermore grip anything, you see.
There simply is no limit to the things that they can do.
Just try to make a peace-sign, a.k.a. the number 2!
The deaf have extra need for them in daily conversation,
For thus they form the alphabet, in oral-less oration.
You couldn’t do a zipper, or a button, or a buckle,
But for your friends, your finger-bends, your ever-flexing knuckles.

Some people like their pillows soft, or feathery, or plump,
Some people like them flat, or firm, or foamy.
But me, I like mine made of flesh, with skeletaly bumps,
And altogether lush, but also bony.
Some people like to sink their skulls in cushions made of down,
A warming spot in which their dreams can moulder.
But me, I like to sleep on busses, where, from town to town,
I get to rest my head upon your shoulder.

If you were to deprive me of all of the rest,
I would ask that you please at least leave me one breast.
I don’t care if you’ve one breast, or double, or triple,
If you have at least one, you have also one nipple.

I really must pause just a sec to insist
That you have something which provides such a nice twist
To your hand or your fingers, your palm or your wrist,
It’s a joint which all amputees surely have missed,
And by now I am sure that you have got the gist,
That I think excellent you have a wrist.

Atop it sits your pretty face, your hair, your ears, your mind,
And down below it there is all the rest of you to find.
It’s full of vital linkages and conduits and veins,
It hooks up all your limbs and guts and organs to your brains.
But it’s not just a go-between, there’s purpose all its own:
It hosts your lovely larynx, giving your sweet voice its tone.
And also on its yummy skin it’s fun to kiss and peck:
Your slender strong head-pedestal, your graceful groovy neck.

There are two things about you for which I have such a passion
And which, you know, in pays chauds, to show is oft your fashion.
At times they’re smooth and supple, with a whitish powdered sheen,
They look just luscious, like I’d like to lick them, they’re so clean.
And other times they by a fuzz of soft hairs are adorned,
Which is nice too, so natural, to see them so unshorn.
On rare occasions, I might add, permit me if I may,
When I approach them I am overwhelmed by their bouquet,
A sharp fermented tangy scent with flies buzzing above ‘em,
But I don’t mind at all, ‘cause they’re your armpits, and I love ‘em.

The first one is opposable, and therefore is quite utile,
Though given its utility, its name sounds pretty dumb.
Without it, many tools and toys would all be rendered futile,
And every hitchhiker agrees: it's great to have a thumb.

The second one is also an important thing to own.
It helps you daily to do almost anything you please.
It's good for pointing, poking, crooking, dialing telephones,
And I am told it's also great for reading indices.

Then we move on to number 3, the middle one, the bird,
The longest of them all, but not too useful by itself
...Unless you wish to digitally signal the F-word
(An action best accomplished with a modicum of stealth).

What's next, the fourth one in the set, is harder to control.
You have to use its neighbors too, or it can't do a thing,
Except for maybe scraping chocolate icing from a bowl,
While some folks think that it's the best place to display a ring.

The last one, number five, may seem quite puny, I confess.
But still, it holds its own against the others, pound for pound:
It's maybe even the most crucial digit you possess,
Because, dear Sarah, it's the one you've got ME wrapped around!

You’re standing in a church. You go there every day.
But something’s wrong, your legs won’t bend, you cannot kneel to pray.
Then suddenly it’s dark, you hear a growling sound.
You try to run, you’re strangely stiff, you fall onto the ground.
You’re wearing funny tights, from neck to wrist to calves.
You’re attempting a pirouette; the audience just laughs.
And then you’re in your bed. In nightmare sweat you steep.
You check: thank god: you still have knees, and then go back to sleep.

If I don't write a poem for you every single day,
Please don't think I don't daily have nice words to you to say.
I cherish every single moment we together spend.
I constantly feel grateful that I have you for best friend.
We wake up for and feed and change and wash and love our son,
But please, my sweet, be reassured: he's not the only one
For whom I feel this love more deep than I have ever known;
It's just that all the baby stuff gets poetry postponed.
I've felt to busy to write poems lately, it is true,
But know my love: it's because I've been busy loving you.

Oh Sarah you’re a wonder. I cannot find words to say
How much you saturate me with awe each and every day.

You know what I most fear in life? Not break or bruise or sprain:
I’m terrified of somehow ever seeing you in pain.

I hope it never comes to pass, I love you so, you see,
I hope that any pain you’d find would rather come to me.

Dear Sarah if I die tonight I want you to know this:
That I have loved the life I’ve had, you’ve filled it with such bliss.

And Sarah if I live tomorrow, this is also true:
That my life feels so full of life because of loving you.

I find it urgent that you know I think the weather's fine.
And that there are some sushi bars where one can really dine.
Too bad the baseball season's done, and for too long, I fear,
But worry not, there's football, and this should prove a fine year.
Some cars are nice to look at, more so if they're very old.
And winter should be mild this year, at least that's what I'm told.
I hope your health is fine. It is? That's nice. Yes, mine is too.
And honestly, that terrorist thing wasn't nice to do.
You see, my friend, most conversation can sound quite absurd,
But what to say? My love's so strong it can't be put to word.

My friend I love you more than toast, than milk, than tea, than marmite,
And all I want is that you feel comfortable and all right.
Your belly looms beneath your boobs so radiant and round,
A gentle kicking love-full precious baby-belly mound.

And when we’re not together, when I’m wand’ring without you,
I miss you dearly, but you see, I also miss him too.
My girl, my son, my family, the dearest folks on earth,
(Besides, I want to be with you in case of giving birth.)

I know you hope he’ll look like me, and what I say to that
Is that I hope he looks like you (but with more baby fat).
Your gorgeous eyes, your thoughtful face, your gentle caring way...
Oh gosh, I just can’t wait for him, so let’s give birth today!

Your kiss to me is licorice in the sun,
So warm and sticky, sweet yet salty too.
It begs return: I cannot stop at one
But must, voracious, keep on kissing you.
Your curves invite my lightest hand to trace
Around and gliding up, and slipping through
Your elbow, to alight upon your face,
Where gentle spirals my slow fingers strew
Until begins to form the smile I crave
To kiss, for which I thus well-mis-behave.

Come run away with me, O Scottish girl,
And you and I will set out to explore
The wildness and the beauty of the world:
And share its endless quest toward evermore.
We’ll swim through the Sahara to the shore,
Then breathe the air meant for each other’s lungs
While dancing on the clear Pacific’s floor.
We’ll fling ourselves out to the farthest-flung
Of places ‘neath the sky, and moon and sun...
And count the stars (yes all of them) and find
That though we couldn’t do it one-by-one,
*Together* it’s a task that we don’t mind.
I’ll feel the pumping of your blood so warm
As you each night sleep wrapped-up in my arms.

With morning’s glow each day my heart is won
By you who are a glory to my sight.
Each afternoon you glisten in the sun,
So redheaded, so Highlandish, so white!
I marvel at you in dusk’s fading light
Whenever you at sunset I have spied,
And then I love you ‘neath the moonlit night
Until you think it’s time to go inside.
Where finally, though in sleep’s dark you hide,
You feel so pretty to my fingertips
As they along your luscious contours glide,
A gentle prelude to my gentle lips.
I love you every hour, night or day,
And in love with you, Sarah, I will stay.

I wake up feeling happy when I wake up next to you.
I cannot think of anything that I would rather do.
To open up my eyes and blink and look around and then
To gently kiss your shoulder and go back to sleep again.
To wrap myself around your body, skin against your skin,
And know that in the game of life, here’s clear proof that I win.
You are my ocean and my sun, my earth, my sky, my air,
And all I’m sure I want is just to wake and find you there.
I hope someday I’ll have the chance to make this dream come true,
Because I wake up happy when I wake up next to you.

Oh Sarah Scorcha Sorcha Awa Miss Mackenzie too,
(Which name is not important, since they all refer to you),
I thrill to go to bed at night, to kiss your scapulae,
And know that then with you for hours I will get to lie.
I long right now to kiss you on your neck, your chin, your hand,
And shiver at the awesome truth: “I can! I can! I can!”

Swans glide on lakes the way our days slip effortlessly by
Out of a life of years these weeks with you flash past like too-quick seconds
Rolling reeling with adventure through a whorl of worlds we fly
Creating something out of everything, until your home life beckons.
How could all this fun be over while each day seems like a start?
And how much fun could we be sharing when we’ll be so far apart?

Sarah, if I could go flying up through the night
With the warm wind arush in my ears and my hair,
And the huge silent majesty of the stars’ light,
I would not, unless I had you too with me there.

Were I offered the crown of a kingdom complete
With a valley, a mountain, and also a sea,
(Not to mention some slaves for the washing of feet)
I’d refuse if, unless you could rule it with me.

I could stumble upon a huge pile of gems
Or discover a lamp full of wishes galore.
I could find a vast platter of mint leaves and nems,
But without you, such temptations I’d just ignore.

You may say I am crazy to turn down these thrills,
You may say that my reason is showing some taint
But I tell you that hell can have heavenly frills,
And if heaven’s without you, then heaven it ain’t.

I could find a live volcano, hoist it up onto a ship,
Navigate it up the Niger River -- golly, what a trip --
I could sink it in the desert, leaving showing just its tip,
So the sand would mix with lava, and glow red.

I could hang glide from Mount Everest one clear and brilliant day,
Bringing with me stacks of anvils, which I’d sprinkle ‘long the way,
I could latch onto a rocketship bound up, up and away,
So beyond the distant stars I’d make my bed.

I could take a crystal goblet, fill it up with creamy flan,
Cover that with chocolate syrup, and then put some whipped cream on,
I could top it off with cherries, ‘til the cherries were all gone,
So I’d have to switch to raspberries instead.

The morals of these stories, laid out plain for all to see
Are that:
Best friends with you is quite a cozy toasty thing to be;
And that:
You make life light and fun, instead of heavy, dark and blue;
And that:
The sweetest things are very sweet, but not as sweet as you.

The wind flung leaves into the sky with might gusting blowing.
And most of them fell back to earth, but one leaf kept on going.
When he was young and green he knew his trunk, his branch, his brothers,
And when they fell he thought that place must be like all the others.
But after he had soared aloft with wind and clouds and birds,
He recognized the world's huge scope, too big even for words.
He wanted to see more, and since this leaf was pretty smart,
He studied all the birds and learned their soaring gliding art.
But not without a price: the wind made his dry fringe break off,
"But I don't care!" he sang with joy, "for now I live aloft!"
He floated on and on, surveying land and lake and sea,
And when the wind would claim a shard, he'd croon, "But I am free!
And each time that the wind breaks off a little scrap of mine,
That little scrap will see yet more! They're my kids, and that's fine!
Plus, they'll have offspring too! My lineage is thus assured:
For generations hence we shall be earthbound leaves no more!"
Therefore it came to pass that as he wandered on and on,
He fractured more and more, until at last the leaf was gone.
And all the tiny bits to which the leaf had given birth
Have since crumbled to dust, but still have not returned to earth.
The leaf's proud legacy, for which he knew that he must die,
Is drifting on forevermore, throughout, one with the sky.
He could have simply fallen, there to fertilize his tree,
Instead he wafted up and on to see what he could see.
This was the leaf's great dream, which led him to self-sacrifice.
So now I ask you, gentle reader: was it worth its price?

The plops of ploop came falling plinker plonker from the sky.
I gazed aloft only to have one spladge into my eye.
Now I cannot read, I cannot write, I cannot see.
Oh, why'd that plinker plonker plop of ploop have to hit me?

I buckled up my safety belt, the metal hatch hissed closed,
The bomb that would destroy the earth concealed in my ship's nose.
I took a deep long sighing breath, resolved at last to start
My plan to create total death, a lasting work of art.
I switched on the ignition, felt the rockets' blasting force
With profound recognition of my long-awaited course.
And as I hurtled upward, driven now to master fate,
I thrilled at my bold scheme which I could now feel culminate.
I thought, 'With all earth's problems gone, the cosmos will be free
Of noise and hate and tears and love and human history.
A grand eternal silence, mass and force obeying laws
Without a hint of doubt, or fear, or other human flaws."
For that is how I felt the universe could best survive,
That only without life could it most truly be alive.
The sky now nearing ever more, the land drifted away.
I knew that what I had to do I had to do today.
I let myself be carried out, be swept up in the wave,
Just thinking of the universe I knew that I could save.
And lost in thought I gazed out at the empty perfect black,
A wondrous quiet symphony, except that at my back
Lay earth, a festering problem which I hoped to now resolve,
A cosmic goof, a planet which should never have evolved.
I basked in contemplation of the awe-inspiring scope
Of what I'd set out to achieve, of space's final hope.
I thought, "All will be simple, just as simple as my plan
To turn and kamikaze, ending life, and earth, and man."
When suddenly a look of fear replaced awe on my face,
For drifting deep in thought, I'd also drifted deep in space.
My fuel is now expended, I have no more left to burn,
I cannot now destroy the earth, neither can I return.
I'm floating through the darkness, only waiting now to die,
A self-created exile to the lightless, timeless sky.
So though I cannot reach my goal of mute infinity
For all of space and time, I have at least reached it for me.

Oh dear friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears
So that I can attempt to make totally clear
That at no point in time have I tried to be great,
But it just sort of happened that that was my fate.
I was meant to be powerful, motive and large.
I could not ask permission, I had to take charge,
And fulfill what my destiny meant me to be:
The most cardinal force in the earth's history.
It's important to me that you all understand
That I meant no malfeasance in taking command,
And I need you to recognize and to admit
That it's not me, but fortune, to whom you submit.
Because just as my instinct demands what I do,
Oh dear friends, Romans, countrymen, you have fates too,
And we must learn to live with our preordained roles:
I, my friends, am the ruler, and you are the proles.
All our fortunes were wagered, that's how the dice fell.
I'd be foolish to fight it, and you would as well.
It's much easier if you just do what I say.
I will issue commands, and then you will obey.
This is not usurpation, I reiterate:
I am helpless to alter it. This is my fate.

I get to act silly and daffy and strange.
I can, if I like, be completely deranged.
I also can play charming, suave and polite.
I can say "you know best" when I know that I'm right.
I get to be wicked or stupid or rude.
I get to hock mucus up into my food.
I can try being you, I can change what is me.
I am nothing and everything, totally free.

I know you'll say no, but I just want to say
that I want you to join me in running away.
We'll just pack up our clothes and our Swiss Army knives
and then wander the globe for the rest of our lives.
We will feel so enriched by our spirits so freed,
just the world and each other is all we will need.
We'll be one happy family adrift in the sky:
mother earth, sister sun, brother moon, you, and I.

I've killed for less, I've killed for more, you won't believe what I've killed for.
I've killed to prove that I was right, I've killed for pleasure and for spite,
I've killed to simply have some fun, I've killed to test out a new gun,
I've killed to augment my income, I've killed because my soul was numb
And burning with a raging fire. I've killed out of lustful desire
To damage flesh, to create pain, to make and eat mortal remains.
I've killed for nothing, nada, nil. There's just no telling why I kill,
Or whom my next victim might be... for all I know, it might be me.

The television glares, it stares, it wears upon the room.
It spills, it wills, it fills the space with flick'ring bluish gloom.
It spreads disease, it rots the mind, it kills the curious spirit,
Yet parents let their kids watch on and on from far too near it.
They start with good public TV to hook kids on the box,
Then every child's infected, worse than mumps or chicken pox,
Which normal childhood maladies subside and pass away.
But TV is forever: where it nests, it plans to stay.
It plays on the subconscious, never leaving time to blink.
It does its job much better once it's trained you not to think.
It absorbs you, you absorb it, it thus controls your mind,
It focuses your eyes on it and then it robs you blind.

They couldn't kill each other, for if so the game would end,
So they had to be contented killing off each other's friends.
One by one they put to death each others' kith and kin,
Each murder strengthening each one's resolve to fight to win.
And when at last the game was done and only they were left,
They hugged each other weeping, beaten, broken and bereft.
And thus they learned the lesson which they should have known before:
It's far worse to be the victor, than the casualty, of war.

Stalk me scare me hunt me chase me
Ambush me, surround, disgrace me
When at last you've caught me, mace me
Don't dare burn me, that would waste me
Whip me flog me hurt me beat me
Cut me kill me cook me eat me
Savor how it tastes so sweet me
When you've worked to earn your meat me

You give me somthing rancid when I ask for something great,
I ask for food and get a pile of dogshit on a plate.
I think that I shall go elsewhere next time I want to eat.
Maybe I'll check out Mabel's place across and down the street.
I'll continue to avoid this place as along as I am able,
Since I'm so unsatisfied with what you spread out on your table.
It's for your benefit that I am bringing you this news.
I think you need to realize how much you stand to lose,
If you keep raising your prices with your service going down.
I'll have you know you're not the only restaurant in town.

Said the drunkard to the preacherman, "Hey ho, let's have a game,
And to the winner we'll award eternal life.
But to the loser goes a future of eternal wrenching flame:
He'll have to kill himself with this, my trusty knife."

But the holy man said, "Sir you must be really quite morose
To think I'd risk what I already stand to gain.
Still, I admit I am intrigued by what you now propose,
So tell me, sir, what are the terms of your fool game?"

The drunkard smiled a wicked grin revealing rotten gums
And said, "Hee hee, the very first rule of the day,
Is that if you agree to hear the rules beyond rule number one,
Then you are also promising that you will play."

But the preacher shouted, "Fool! You think temptation is the key
By which you hope to my eternal soul ensnare!"
The other yawned and said, "Ho hum, it's all the same to me,
You need not play if you doubt that it will be fair."

The two sat silent for a spell, neither one uttering a sound,
The preacher watching his companion drink his gin.
And so time passed, until the holyman said, "Gad, how you confound!
I promise I will play, now let the game begin!"

"My pure undying soul into the ring I now have tossed,
So please now tell me all the rules I don't know yet."
At which the drunkard slowly smiled and said, "Ha ha you have just lost!
The game began the very moment that we met."

It rains all day and night
The raindrops splash kerplish kerplop.
It has been raining always
No, the rain will never stop.

Since it might with disease be imbued,
Many tourists here won't touch the food.
And I'm tempted to shout,
"What is travelling about?"
But to do so I think would be rude.

"Hey, the door is wide open!" she said
To her lover next to her in bed.
"If my husband discovers
You under my covers,
He'll detach your neck from your head."

There once was a man named Raheem
Who had all his traits more than it seemed.
He was dumber, and meaner,
And more of a wiener
Than his comrades would have esteemed.

A black-jacket ruffian named Scottie
Referred to the toilet as "potty"
I think we all did
The same thing, as a kid,
But to grow up by now, I think ought 'e.

A man named Raoul from Brazil
Took a long-lasting ecstasy pill.
He told all his confessions,
Gave away his possessions,
And they say that he feels that way still.

A woman who liked to ride bikes
Hit a dog on the road and yelled, "Yikes!"
She then gave it a bone,
Picked it up, took it home,
And then tortured its butthole with spikes.

The freewheeling playboy from Denver
Had a fetish for cars being dismembered.
So before he would hump her
She'd don a rear bumper,
And then shouting "Vroom! Vroom!" he'd back-end her.

Oh the young girls in Woodward tonight
I think wouldn't be sleeping so tight,
If any of them knew
All the things I could do
With a girl, and a hose, and a light.
(I could sure as hell make the sun shile where it hasn't before, but I think a halogen light would be the best way to do that. Unfortunately, the meter does not allow for elaboration in the nature of the luminary device involved.)

For me limerick writing is easy,
The lines flow out lucid and breezy.
But I must stay alert,
And attempt to avert
Any words that might sound sorta' cheezy.

A Chicagoan Student named Guy
Sprouted wings, and then learned how to fly.
He exerted this power
Far above the Sears Tower,
'Til he fell, thus impaling his eye.

It's now nearing time that I started
Off to class for a French test....reeeeeaaal hard!!
These French 1 tests are cheezy...
They're totally easy...
What do they think, we're retarded?

The lecherous baboon named Lloyd
Is a menace and should be destroyed.
If I'd yanked out my knife
And then ended Lloyd's life,
It would have been a moment enjoyed.

My Pschitt soda can sit here in front-a-me,
When I first see da brand name it stun-a-me.
And without second glance,
Sent the can home from France,
And this just might have hurt our ecunomy.

Said a chinaman speaking in pigeon,
"Me know much about Clistian Lerigion.
It seem vely oplessive,
As werr as obsessive,
And Bible is litten by Gideon.

My cooking ability, my love,
Is at a level which yours is above.
BUT...I'm sure with your help,
Dinner won't taste like kelp,
And to touch it won't require gloves.

Three darling young puppies are strangled,
De-clawed, gutted, slashed up and mangled.
While their meat slowly cooks,
From the ceiling on hooks
Their intestinal entrails are dangled.

"Well, no wonder your side hurts, you dummy,"
Said the doctor, "You've holes in your tummy!
"The gunpowder has fused
With the blood you have losed,
And the bullet holes now are all scummy."

That poor unctious popinjay, Dave
Is a weenie, a card, and a knave.
And his idea of fun
Involves girls ten years young,
So the state keeps him locked in a cave.

Haljarbandelinefrophlabkaceous
Prig neolphintine sprechers entaeshus
Gabreltynigraworn
Itch conrasclabtroforn
But the stains that it leaves are hellaceous.

At rush hour, a man in Manhattan
Thought he'd teach the log-jammed drivers Latin.
He stood in the street
And said, "Now, please repeat:
'Hic, haec, hoc; hic haec...'" Then he was flattened.
(By a truck whose driver knew nothing of higher education)

"I agree that it's good that you socked her,
And that then in the pantry you locked her.
For the food there will hold
'Til she's back in control,
And if not, then she dies," said the doctor.

The baloney man, hawking his wares,
Drowned out other folks trying to sell theirs.
All together they got
To discuss a boycott,
But instead beat him senseless with chairs.

Said the ugly man living in Trenton,
"It is only right that I should mention,
Beauty's only skin deep...
plus, a my paycheck's too cheap
For a facelift, my long-held intention."

A typically crazed T.V. minister
Shot a gun at a nun trying to finish her.
But from then on 'twas fettered
By wearing a letter
Bright red on his chest: S for Sinister.

A typically crazed T.V. minister
Shot a gun at a nun trying to finish her.
Tossing her one hour later
In a pit full of 'gators,
And to show his repentance jumped in with her.

"The opening's filled,' said the boss
In a tone of voice tired and cross.
"Our employee so new
Is much more skilled then you,
So your lateness has caused me no loss."

The unthinking man from Seattle
Killed his horse, skinned it, and made a saddle.
But to obtain the hide,
He had destroyed his ride,
So he oft rode around on some cattle.

Jenny, Tim, Laurie, and me
Filled and kept uncapped four jars of pee.
But the jars held such stink
That we four had to drink
the jars, which made us quite unhappy.

So important her nose tip to her,
That its highlighting she does deter.
"But highlighting pronounces,"
To her he announces,
"So your nose would look importanter!"

The relish that this hotdog sports
Looks like piles of green, moist, severed warts.
And this catsup-esque crud
Quite reminds me of blood.
People who like this also like sports.

Writing limericks can be quite tricky,
If your standards are fickle and picky.
For the metrical time
And the scheme of the rhyme
Are sometimes a real bitch to make match up.

As finals week quickly approaches,
All my work on my time quite encroaches.
It all seems sort of dumb,
Because After the bomb,
There won't be school at all, only roaches.

The nymphomaniacal hooker
Thought a passerby was quite a looker.
She offered her service,
But that made him nervous:
He ran to a cop and said, "book her!"

When sunlight is packaged as powder,
And the din of the silence grows louder,
I shall that day confine
My diet to wine,
With occasional treats of squid chowder.

There once was a man from Malaysia
who travelled to Thailand occasia-
Nally. Often enough,
That he brought back some stuff.
And he now says, "drug dealing sure pays ya'."

All the thin hungry folks in Sudan
Eat as often and much as they can.
O my heart is so rent
That this morning I sent
Them some cigarettes, whiskey, and spam.

Oh, that Sweet Valley High were not fiction!
For 'twould be an experience enrichen'
To take one of those teens
From her home-secure scene,
And then flay her beyond recognition.

Oh, the worst type of weather I know
Is that white fluffy hell known as snow.
I have hated November
Since I can remember,
For it's then that the cold breezes blow.

If humans had never evolved,
A number of things would be solved.
It's because we are here
That our whole ecosphere
In the Earth's swift demise is involved.

If mankind had not been created,
All other beasts would be elated.
Because our subsistence
Curtails their existence,
We've killed them faster than they have mated.

Why so many people like history
Will to me always be a deep mystery.
For the books which are storing
It's knowledge are boring,
And to memory it's always resistory.

Why so many people like history
Will to me always be a deep mystery.
Turning thousands of pages
Describing the ages,
My hands and my mind end up blistery.

I'm glad I was not born a cow,
But Alas! I am quite unsure how
To thank mother nature
For the nomenclature
By which we are called human now.

Much religion is so tied to music
Like gospel-esque tunes, or soul blues-ic.
And if Black Satanism
Would count as religion,
Then thus bands like Black Sabbath use it.

There once was a man from Kabul
Who could not afford a swimming pool.
So he went to a show
At the Porn-a-Go-Go,
Where he waded hip-deep in his drool.

The warm and open sky
The caressing of the wind
I grab and hug you tightly
Gripping just below your chin.

I feel your throat give way.
I hear a whistling wheezing sound
Your body slips between my hands
And falls onto the ground.

I lie down next to you.
I gently stroke your hair.
I whisper tender whispers
To remind you that I care.

Your windpipe clogged with blood.
You gasp through tiny bubbles.
For a moment I am sorry
To have caused you so much trouble.

Then pressed against my own
I feel your body die.
I'm glad to share this moment with you
Out beneath the sky.

Since then until right now
I hold your warm corpse next to mine.
For love and death yield wondrous passion
When they are combined.

Oh, most brilliantly blistering corpuscle of grain paste and sucrose on inside and out,
With a hint of your innards poking through both your outards through your umbilical belly-button spout.
Which when squozen your less viscous portions burst forth on my shirt or my pants or the floor,
How I wish rather than sugar you contained CHILI, beans, beef, and hot spices galore!!

I once hit a cow near a small country town
And she shouted "Hey! Why do you b'lieve
That if I'm in the road I deserve being run down?
That's one of my biggest pet peeves."

I responded to her, "You're a cow, not a man
And you've wandered too far from your turf.
And besides if I want to kill you then I can...
Species-wise, I'm a lord. You're a serf."

"I resent that," she mooed. "I think cows deserve some
Credit that you're not too wont to share.
You humans spend your lives as though you were dumb
Without giving others a care.

"You also eat meat, from cows just as myself.
You consume fellow animals outright.
You're nonpeaceful , you kill trees to shelter yourself,
And you sleep on dead goose feathers at night."

I then told the cow, "What you say is quite true,
But what's wrong with carnivorous consumption?
You're bleeding to death, and I'll shortly eat you.
In your honor I'll have a big luncheon."

The cow said, "Alas! You're inhuman, you're dumb!
All you humans seem to me that way.
Eventually I hope that you'll see what you've done
And start eating each other someday.

"But I'm powerless now to reverse my sad fate
For your cruelty quite renders me weak.
And within days I shall be ground up, turned to steak,
That's my penalty for being meek.

"SO GOOD-BYE WORLD!" she mooed, "It's high time that I left,
'Cause this car rammed its grill up my ass.
But remember," she said, "you'll be eating my flesh,
But all I ever ate was some grass."

The one old man just stands there, no idea of what to say.
The other fellow simply frowns, and turns, and walks away.

I want to stab, to feel the blood, all sticky warm and red.
I need to feel the blade slice through your flesh into the bed.
I see your organs, hear your screams they push me more and more.
I think that causing you this pain is all that I am for.

I don't want you to go on living such a happy life,
And so I schedule an appointment with you for my knife.
You've hurt me once too often, so I'm evening the score.
I think that causing you this pain is all that I am for.

How dare you be so nonchalant in all your selfish ways.
When you indulge your evil whims, just who do you think pays?
I want for you to suffer, agonizing evermore.
I think that causing you this pain is all that I am for.

But why should I be bother by inflicting all this pain?
I'd only waste my precious time with negligible gain.
I still want you to suffer, but to suffer on your own,
'Cause suffering's more painful when you suffer all alone.

I picture you contorting, twisting, writhing in your bed.
I picture you pathetic there, all wracked with guilt and dread.
Although I feel compassion, still your anguish I condone,
'Cause suffering's less painful when you know you're not alone.

not a sliver of moon, not a star was in sight.
it was black inky darkness, complete total night.
i groped about blind, not a thing could i see,
but i found only tree after tree after tree.
i was deep in a woods, what i sought was a bed
a warm comfortable place i could rest my tired head
for the night air was cold and the ground full of damp
there was nowhere to shelter, no place i could camp
so i stumbled on, finding just tree after tree
with no hint in the world of just where i might be.
i had no sense of time, all my mind was a haze
were it not for the night, i'd have guessed it was days
since i'd been out there wandering deep in the wood,
i walked on without hope, yet still hoping i could
see some glimmer of light, find some welcoming place
i traipsed on with my hands raised to protect my face
and my eyes open wide, although quite uselessly,
finding tree after tree after tree after tree.

A large nocturnal creature writhes deep down below the skin.
He wriggles in the pool of blood he chooses to live in.
He opens wide his clotty hairy large nocturnal jowels,
And shrieks a wail of strangely haunting darkly piercing howls.

They echo through the organs, rattle in the teeth and bones.
The lungs absorb some volume, changing screams to sombre moans.
The neck acts as a filter, tensing, soaking up the pain,
So scarcely any of the creature's howls gets to the brain.

The creature recognizes the predicament he's in.
He knows how deeply trapped he is deep down below the skin.
Each futile shriek more frustrating than that which came before it.
And each wail fully conscious that the brain will just ignore it.

The cars screech to a blazing halt.
The smell of burning rubber.
A little boy out in the road.
The scared screams of the mother.

The boy is safe, the cars are stopped.
His mother cries with joy.
But then from down a cross street
Comes a car which kills the boy.

The mother shrieks, her tears renewed.
She runs to her dead son.
The driver nowhere to be seen,
A clean clear hit-and-run.

She holds his little body,
Broken, black, and red, and blue.
But then from out of nowhere
Comes the car, which kills her too.

The postscript to this fable,
Laid out plain for all to see,
Is that a traffic intersection
Is a stupid place to be.

My friend said, "She's disgusting, smelly breath and greasy hair,
And her grey saliva's full of germs, of which you should beware
Because with each new caustic word that comes out of her cancerous mouth
She sprays saliva all around the place."
But he was wrong.

For from the moment I first saw you, I knew you were meant for me
And that my friend's harsh warning must have been caused by insanity.
You were the lithest, lushest, beautifulest thing I'd ever seen,
And the girl with me said, "What a ghastly face!"
But she was wrong.

'Cause when we started going out, then I was floating on cloud 9.
I could simply not get over it, that you were really mine.
Although my friends stopped hanging out with me 'cause you were always there,
And they said your breath could murder death.
But they were wrong.

For as the weeks flew by our love developed into something deep.
I would spend whole nights of wakefulness just gazing at you sleep.
And you returned my love with passion, kindness, warmth, and tender glee.
But when you said that I should marry you,
Then you were wrong.

'Cause at the moment you proposed to me my amour slipped away.
The cloak of nighttime passed, exposing in the light of day
That my friends had been right all along, and suddenly I knew
That I thought you were a beauty and a wit
And I was wrong.
And I thought you smelled like flowers not like shit
And I was wrong
And I thought my friends were acting out of spite
And I was wrong.
And I thought that they were dumb and you were bright
And I was wrong
And the instant you said "marriage" I could see
That I was wrong
And I'm so so glad that you proposed to me
'Cause I was so
so
so
so
wrong.

Now leave.

Of all the muscles that you have, there's one that's the most funny.
It soaks in spit all day, which makes it slippery and runny.
But still, it's very wonderful, as useful as can be,
Without it you could not taste food or say things properly.
It helps you shape the sounds you utter into useful forms.
It helps you test your cocoa to feel if it's hot or warm.
It helps you tell your friends all of your stories and your dreams
It helps you blow gum bubbles, and it helps you eat ice cream.
Without it you would never know the joy of chocolate cake,
Or say, "three thousand thirsty turtles tasted sixty snakes."
You stick it out, you curl it up, you lick your teeth and lips,
You have to hold it sometimes, because it can also slip.
It's great at self-promotion, its own praises it has sung.
Do you know what it is yet? It's your oozing, schmoozing tongue.

Above your eyes you've got two strips with hairs all sticking out
And you can squinch them, knit them, raise them, wangle them about.
Indeed you could lift only one, to indicate suspicion,
Or else raise both, to show surprise, or lack of inhibition.
When angry you can rumple them, or spread them to look wise,
And when you're worried, you can bunch them up between your eyes.
What's funny is to cycle them in up-down, rolling motions,
And then to drop them flat. These things are chock-full of emotions.
They're really quite expressive, with a wide range of contortions,
But also they can come in many colors and proportions.
Some people keep theirs bushy, full of wild protruding hairs
While others tweeze and snip and yank and pluck shape into theirs.
(This seems to be quite painful, jerking hairs out one by one,
But lots of people do it, so I guess it must be fun).
They make them look like arches, or like swoops, or funny stencils,
Or shave them altogether, and then draw them back with pencils.
They can look thin and Spartan, simple contours on your face,
They can resemble caterpillars running in a race.
In certain cases, toward the center each one of them grows
Until they join into a single furrow at the nose.
But whether primped and manicured or prickly, grand and wild
These features help you wink, and frown, and growl, and hoot, and smile.
You might ask "well, what are they?" (If you do so, raise them high now).
And I'll cock mine out to the sides, and say, "They are your EYEBROWS."

Your body isn't solid, no, it's full of lots of holes.
They each have different purposes, they each have different goals.
Some, like your ears, are sensory and wondrous, without question,
While others, like your mouth, are also useful for digestion.
For smells and breathing, you have got two nostrils in your nose,
Where also mucus from those two same orifices flows.
You have one special opening that's private as can be,
But since each of us has one, there's no need for secrecy.
Whenever you eat dinner, breakfast, lunch, or even snacks,
Your body turns the food into energy. That's a fact.
Yet always there are leftovers your body doesn't use
And so it turns these undigested tidbits into poos.
So when you sit atop the toilet every single day,
Be glad you've got a hole through which your poop can drop away.
It's not the kind of stuff you want to keep inside for long
That's why you've got that opening, and why it is so strong.
In fact, this special orifice is really your good friend,
On which, when you don't want to poo, you really can depend.
It clamps up tight and helps you wait until you are well seated
Atop your throne, and then it opens up just when you need it.
But in return you must take care, for though it can't be seen
Without a mirror, it's important that you keep it clean.
You have to wipe it thoroughly each time you're finished using it
It's so important, it would be a real shame to risk losing it.
For some reason it's not polite to talk about it much,
But really, we're all grateful that we each of us have such
A useful and effective way of getting rid of poop,
No matter if it's watery, or solid, or a goop.
What's more, if there's not poop, but only air, trapped in your belly,
It exits just the same, (although it's sometimes awfully smelly).
Just one more rule about these: only doctors should inspect ‘em.
It's private, it's important, it's essential, it's your rectum.

What makes your gait so graceful?
What gives your step its spring?
What helps you stand on tippy-toe?
What is that magic thing?
It's muscley and bulgey.
Your leg's back-lower-half.
It's slender, but it's also strong,
It's awesome! It's your calf!

They get you through the city,
They get you through your life.
They cut through thorns and high-heeled shoes
Like butter through a knife.
Each day they help propel you as
Your life you navigate.
They work so hard without complaint
And love to bear your weight.
Sometimes they're thick with calluses,
Sometimes they're thick with dust.
Sometimes they're both so black with grime
To wash them is a must.
At times they're nice and proper,
All pedicured and neat.
But looks are unimportant here:
Be glad you've got your feet.

Your arms are very nice, but have you ever wondered if
You couldn't bend them, what life would be like?
We take this quite for granted, but if they were always stiff,
It would be hard to drive a car, or steer a bike.
The truth is, they're too long, in fact they reach down past your waist,
And also this far out, and high above your ears.
So long that if they didn't bend, you couldn't wash your face,
Or do your belt, or scratch your back, or dry your tears.
However, on each of your arms, between your shoulder and your wrist
There lies a sharply flexing smoothly folding joint.
This bendy bony something also helps your forearms twist
And can be used to jab your neighbor with its point.
Without it, to eat lunch you'd need an extra-stretched-out spoon
Because your hands would never reach your mouth alone…
Then what a mess! You'd get food everywhere, and with a broom
It would be hard to sweep with arms as stiff as stone.
It's convenient, don't you know, that you can make your body fold
Into a million different postures, forms and shapes.
It's great for climbing ladders, and I also have been told
Houdini bent his arms a lot in his escapes.
You might ask, "so what are those things that let me comb my hair,
And if I want more of them, where's a store that sells those?"
To which I'd say, "They're not for sale, you only get one pair,
But that's enough. And oh, those things are called your ELBOWS."

When you were just a little baby, soft as Persian silk,
All you ever wanted was to drink your mom's sweet milk.
You'd get your face right up against her dripping, seeping nozzle,
You'd lock your tongue and lips in place, and then begin to guzzle.
And while you sat there drinking, it could be you thought about
The miracle of your kind mama's magic milky spout.
We each are born with two of these, a left one and a right,
Although with modern clothing, they're most often out of sight.
When girls get older, and have babies, milk comes out of theirs,
While boys' ones, with no ready use, get covered up with hairs.
But whether male or female, on no matter whom they live,
These roundish darkish splots of skin are very sensitive.
They tell you when the air is cold, or when your shirt is rough,
And also when your bathwater is really hot enough.
They have a language all their own, the girls' as well as boys',
And yet they tell you all of this without a peep or noise.
Their most important use, however, is, most people think,
For moms to give warm milk to babies when they need a drink.
For boys they might be good for showing off pectoral ripples,
But mostly they're for moms and babies. Pink or brown, they're nipples.

What helps you yell your name out loud?
What helps you crow when you are proud?
What is that thing that helps you holler,
Tucked between your chin and collar?
It also helps with quiet things,
It lets you laugh, and hum, and sing.
You tell the man, "I've made my choice,"
(You say this in your sweetest voice),
"I'd like a chocolate cone," you say...
But what makes your voice sound that way?
It's in your throat, it helps you speak,
And growl, and croon, and purr, and shriek.
When whispering, you turn it off
You strain it every time you cough.
But mostly, it's just used for talking
(we can't spend all of our time squawking).
We all have voices, that is true,
But this thing makes you sound like you.
It's worth more than a thousand rare minks,
This cool tool is called your LARYNX!

You've got two balls inside your head,
You close them when you go to bed.
You open them to start your day,
You use them when you want to play
'Most every game. It has to be,
Because without them, you can't see.
(I know it sounds like quite a lark,
But most games suffer in the dark.)
These balls are nestled in your face,
And are, thank goodness, fixed in place
It is a good thing, without doubt,
That they're stuck so they won't fall out
(For if they did fall to the ground
And then began to roll around,
They'd be quite difficult to find
Since you would be completely blind
And you might step on them. How smelly
(Because, you know, they're full of jelly)).
Sometimes you scrunch them up real tight,
Or squint them towards a dazzling light.
They come in hazel, brown and blue,
And green and grey and chestnut too.
These balls are so useful for you,
That you've not only one, but two.
(With one, you'd be fine, that's a fact,
But everything would look quite flat.)
When you are sad they start to leak.
They sparkle when of joy you speak.
They're also useful for to see
A sunset, or to watch TV.
What they are should be no surprise:
All-seeing orbs, your gorgeous eyes!

If you'll give me a second, I'll tell you a story,
The very sad tale of miss Dizzy McMorree,
And tell how her whole life got wasted away.
It all started back on a September day.
A September day on a bright afternoon
When she got her own TV to keep in her room.
From that moment on, though they tried and they tried,
There was no way to make Dizzy go play outside.
Her friends would say, "Dizzy, come on out and play!"
"My show's on," she'd tell them, "now please go away."
Her parents said, "Sweetie dear, please, please, go out,
It's a beautiful day." But then Dizzy would pout
And her folks would relent, they would feel bad and say,
"Well, alright then, dear sweetie." So in she would stay.
She watched documentaries, movies, cartoons,
She watched shows for children with clowns and balloons,
She watched daytime talk shows and daily soap operas,
She watched police rescues with blue helicopters,
She watched Ginger Rogers dance with Fred Astaire,
Anything, everything, she didn't care.
She watched every channel, she watched every show
Each evening from under her doorway the glow
Of the box would spill out, and its electric buzz,
But she never again turned the set off, because
She was hooked on its glimmer, its fast-moving way
Of making her skip through the channels all day.
She watched infomercials, she watched people cook,
She watched fine dramatic portrayals of books,
And she might have thought, "that's one more book I must read,"
But she didn't. Oh, no, Dizzy didn't indeed,
Since the channels kept changing again and again
It was starting to do something new to her brain,
And she stopped really thinking the way that she ought,
But instead made the most basic, and shortest, thoughts.
The TV had stolen her curious spirit,
But still she watched on and on from far too near it.
The one thought that went through her head all day long
Was, "I wonder what other shows there might be on."
So she flipped and she surfed day and night without stop.
She watched Benny Hill, Doctor Who, Star Trek, Cops.
She watched fashion programs about the new fads.
She watched tens of dozens of hundreds of ads.
She watched her TV while her mind slowly fried,
She watched while the world went on living outside
She watched shows with violence, she watched shows with sex
She watched nature shows about ostriches' necks.
She watched 'til her skin got all puffy and blotched,
And she watched and she watched and she watched and she watched.
She watched the late shows 'til her eyes would turn red,
Every night she would sleep watching TV in bed.
Her friends still remembered her, and would still visit
They'd sit by her side and watch Jeopardy, Quiz-it,
The Simpsons, Friends, Seinfeld, The Prince of Bel-Air
And then they'd emerge from the bluish-grey glare
Into sunshine and life, and they said, "it's a shame
That Dizzy won't come out to play any games."
And eventually, as her friends all grew smarter,
They stopped coming by, and then finally, forgot her.
"Oh Dizzy, yeah she was cool," they would all say,
"Until she got stuck watching TV all day."
But did Dizzy mind that she'd come to this end?
Did she care about one-by-one losing her friends?
Well of course not, she didn't, she couldn't you see,
Because she was just too busy watching TV.
Her life was, she thought, as good as it could get,
She was learning so much from her dear TV set,
She was seeing the world, she was learning to cook,
She watched history shows, and she watched the great books,
She sat and she watched, but she just didn't see
That her whole life was being spent watching TV.
She sat and she watched, and she watched and she sat.
Her muscles grew weak, and her body grew fat
And then Dizzy stopped speaking, since she had stopped thinking
She stopped eating, stopped moving, even stopped blinking
Her glassy eyes stared, and reflected the gloom
Of the flickering set in her sad little room.
The only part of her that still moved a lick.
Was her thumb on the remote control: click click click.
She knew every product that everyone buys,
But the one thing that Dizzy could never realize
Was that science shows, comedies, the Ginsu knife:
These were wasting her time, these were stealing her life.
If she spoke, she would say, "I'm the luckiest girl
Since I got this TV that gives me the whole world."
But for all of the knowledge her TV was giving,
She didn't see that she had really stopped living.
She knew all the gizmos, she knew all the toys
She knew all the products for girls and for boys
She knew every cleanser, and automobile,
She knew every sale, every really good deal.
She knew when new movies were coming to town,
And whether the stock market was up or down.
But one thing that poor Dizzy never concluded
Is that info's useless, unless you go use it.
Her TV had made her a kind of a fool,
She had lost all her friends, she did not go to school,
She could not kick a ball, ride a bike, fly a kite
She just sat and watched TV all day and all night.
She just couldn't realize how much she was missing,
Like dating, and laughing, and loving, and kissing.
Instead she spent all her time up in her room,
A digital jail, a satellite tomb
And I guess that's where Dizzy McMorree is still,
Since she's not got the inkling, or even the will
To come outside into the fresh air to play.
Yes, I guess Dizzy's watching TV to this day.
Though it's stupid and ignorant, dumb, slow and wrong
To watch show after show after show all day long,
We can still take a lesson from Dizzy McMorree,
And learn from this very sad, sad little story.
For if there's one moral that occurs to me,
It's that life is to short to spend watching TV.
So that's it, that is all that I wanted to say,
And now let's go outside. It's a beautiful day.

O little fallen acorn, you're so small and hard and round.
You've fallen from the great old oak onto the grassy ground.
I've picked you up, and now I hold you in my little hand.
I wonder, though, how big you'd grow if planted in the land?
It's possible that, if you had not been picked up by me,
You'd someday be a mighty sturdy towering oak tree.
It seems to me incredible that you could grow so great,
And that a one as small as I might now control your fate.

Yes, little fallen acorn, oh so hard and round and small:
Right now you don't look like you're much of anything at all.
It hardly seems that from your kind this great old oak once sprouted.
They say it's true, but look at you, you truly make me doubt it.
Yet still I know that you could grow, and that before too long
You'd reach your limbs high toward the sky, so tall and stout and strong.
Your shade would spread above my head, your branches would fan wide
You'd shelter me, oh massive tree, so grand and dignified.

My little fallen acorn, just so round and small and hard,
I'm tempted to go plant you in the middle of the yard,
To help you make a make a simple starting toward a worthy end,
I'd water you and check for weeds, and be your lifelong friend.
I'd watch you poke up through the earth, and then become a sapling...
But you know what? On second thought, this time that won't be happening.
I'm sorry, little acorn, for this sudden, awful shock:
But I think it would be more fun to pound you with a rock!

O fallen acorn, once so round and small and hard and little,
I've peeled off your soft wooden cap and smashed your pulpy middle.
The future tree you'll never be must be one of your brothers
For where I found you all around you were so many others.
You'd have become a lovely tree, but that sweet dream has ended:
I've made you now a different game, whose damage can't be mended.
So please remember, acorn, if you question what I did:
You were just an acorn, and I am just a kid.

"...a field trip," Mrs. Reilly said.
"Tomorrow pack a lunch."
I felt an overwhelming dread,
A dark foreboding hunch.

Onto the bus all single file
With laughter shouts and cheer.
I try my best to force a smile.
My stomach twists in fear.

The ride is bumpy and remote.
It seems to last a week.
A tightness rises round my throat.
I cannot cry or speak.

The bus comes to a lurching halt,
A quiet eerie stillness.
My presence here is my own fault.
I could have feigned an illness.

Down from the bus the children get.
We follow to a field.
The air is cool but still I sweat.
My terror will not yield.

"Now gather round," Miss Reilly shouts,
"We're going to play a game."
I wonder at my early doubts:
Was all that fear in vain?

My perspiration chills as she
Produces a blindfold.
The teacher is my enemy.
She cannot be controlled.

"And now I need a volunteer."
I cower, bravery gone.
She points to me: "Come over here
And put this blindfold on."

I panic. Quick. No time for thought.
I'm sprinting. Fast. Away.
The trees. Protection. Don't get caught.
My instinct saves the day.

I hear my feet against the ground.
I hear my heart, my breath.
I hear the throbbing screaming sound
Of primal flight from death.

And now the sounds of other legs.
They're running after me.
They're hunters, I their chosen prey,
A grand conspiracy.

Dodge left. Now duck. The trees fly past.
The growing tribal noise
Of my pursuers, gaining fast.
Bloodthirsty girls and boys.

Over the hill, out of their sight,
a hollow tree awaits.
No time to pause, it's do-or-die.
It's this or fatal fate.

I edge between the rotting lips
The wormy wooden yawn.
The floor is soft, it cracks, I slip,
Deep in the trunk I'm drawn.

I see them from my hiding place.
I do not move or breathe.
They're circling, looking for a trace,
A trace I did not leave.

This tree whose walls around me loom,
My only place to hide,
Will ultimately be my tomb.
I cannot go outside.

And now trapped in this quiet black,
I live inside my head.
My lesson, I think, looking back,
Is learn to heed the dread.

With hand abob, the old AMANUENSIS copies all he hears.
He seems well-suited to his job, not having had ideas in years.

The BOMBADIER unleashes fiery nightmares on the towns below;
It brings him not a tear, so long as those he kills he doesn't know.

CENTUPLET number fifty-nine has spent his childhood playing games.
The one that takes the longest time is recalling his brothers' names.

In his most scientific way, the DRUGGIST concocts cures from flowers;
He sells to adults through the day, and then to schoolboys after hours.

The ENGINEER surveys his bridge, and filled with pride, he laughs and weeps.
The walking right up to its edge, he looks around, and sighs, and leaps.

The hard-working FACTOTUM gives his life entirely to his boss.
He has no children, friends or wife, but feels it isn't any loss.

The GIANT can't fit in his bed, and when he stands, he bumps his head.
His feet are cold, his scalp is red. He often wishes he were dead.

As he prepares the corpse to carve, compassion grips the HOMOVORE:
"I have so much while others starve; should I be giving to the poor?"

The INFANT, kidnapped just as planned, will never see the home he loves.
His skin will be removed, and tanned, and made into expensive gloves.

The JESTER plays his comic role for many a count a duke and squire
Who'd no doubt find it far more drole to set the jingling fool afire.

The blight and famine reach new highs affects not the KAKASTOCRAT,
Who cannot fully sympathize, nor even move, he's grown so fat.

Meditating on his life, the LEPER dreams of girls he's kissed,
And if he could but grip a knife, he'd surely try to slit his wrist.

Without a trace of joy or pride, the calm MESSIAH guides his sheep,
For though the flock he tends is wide, he knows they aren't very deep.

The NANNY, sick of her young master, harshly slays the tiresome brat.
She then confesses to her pastor, is absolved, and that, is that.

Though they are weak and almost fossil, to garner wisdom from the OLD,
We lock them up to keep them docile, and make them do as they are told.

The PARESSEUSE has as best friend her faithful color TV set.
She's well aware her sloth must end, but glad it hasn't done so yet.

The QUARRY, in his desperate flight, adorns himself with red balloons.
He clearly isn't very bright, and will be stuffed and mounted soon.

High up in his mountain den, the RECLUSE hears unearthly voices.
He thinks, "I have so many friends," and thus accompanied, rejoices.

The SISSY, althoughsure he's right, dares not confront the brutish hulk,
But still is forced into a fight, and beaten to an oozing pulp.

His whole life spent insiide a jar, the THEORIST makes elaborate schemes,
Which, though not based on how things are, work well with how he thinks they seem.

For sake of childhood yuletide joy, the USERER lends healthy sums
To parents who, to buy them toys, will lose their shirts, or else their thumbs.

The VEGETABLE, like a spud, has not a thought to call his own.
But owing to his rare-typed blood, his body's end has been postponed.

His voice sincere and visage too, the WITNESS tells a sordid tale,
Which, although not completely true, will land his lover's spouse in jail.

Unless the sky is thick with rain, the XEROPHOBE soaks in a pool
Which, built without a tap or drain, he fills with urine, sweat and drool.

In loyal service to his lord, the YEOMAN handles certain tasks
About which he could scarce afford to suffer certain questions asked.

The ZEALOT kills without compunction the disbelievers in his lord.
Murder is his holy function and is itself its own reward.

The tide was stirring up the sea which lapped against the sand.
The sand made up a sunny beach which lapped against the land.
The land rose up to mountain peaks which lapped against the sky.
The sky contained the moon, whose laps elliptic cause the tides.

I whispered to my girlfriend on the mountain by the sea,
"Hey can you keep a secret? The man in the moon is me.
I like to shine upon you as I cycle round your world,
For I can tell from far away you're such a far-out girl.

I drive the sea and wind which move the rivers and the sand
To sculpt a ring of canyons which I place upon your hand.
I orbit round you, baby, you're my world, my number one.
Whom could you cherish more?" My sweetheart answered me: "The sun."

I bellowed: "That philanderer! You think the sun's so great?
You think that you're his only girl? He has another EIGHT!
Oh, baby, I'm so faithful, please consent to be my wife,
For what can he provide that I cannot?" She answered: "Life.

"He offers food and light to the plants with which I abound.
He gives me thermal power, heating up my fertile ground,
Enabling my children to proliferate and spread.
I love you, you big lunatic, but without him, I'm dead."

This answer left me speechless, mad with envy and chagrin.
I spend my life orbiting her, and she's in love with him!
I said, "I'll win you over. Yes. I must. Without a doubt.
I'll show you who has power. I will block your boyfriend out!"

Her voice was full of fear, "Oh, no! Don't make him go away!
My children need him to survive! They need the light of day!
Oh, please don't do what you propose!" I heard her stricken cry,
"I need the sun, for as I said, without him I will die!"

I felt a pang of pity, but it quickly turned to glee.
"If I can pull this off," I thought, "she'll be impressed with me.
Then she will know who holds the reins of power up above,
And then with me, it's plain to see, she'll madly fall in love."

I sat right down to work upon my plan to rule the sky.
I worked out the equations of the paths that we three fly.
I figured out a way to shift the track of my ellipse,
Then put my scheme in action, and created an eclipse.

I marvelled at the beauty of the shadow on the land.
I revelled in my glory, that I'd done what I had planned.
And turning to my sweetheart, sure that now she'd think me great,
I saw her staring at me full of awe... but also hate.

I realized at once that terror could not be the way
To win her love, and so I moved, restoring full the day.
She smiled, and it warmed me, as the sun was warming her,
And I knew that I was wrong to try to keep light from the earth.

This happened centuries ago, and every year since then
For just a couple minutes I have blocked the sun again.
A short reminder for the earth, for whom my love still burns,
To show her I accept that it's around the sun she turns.

The tide, it still stirs up the sea, which laps against the sand.
The sand still makes a sunny beach which laps against the land.
The land still rises to the peaks which lap against the sky,
And lapping 'tween the sun and earth eternally am I.