POEMS I HAVE ROTTEN (sp?) RITTEN (sp?) WROTE (PART 2)

A VISIT FROM THE EASTER BUNNY

‘Twas the night before Easter, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even my spouse.
The baskets were placed in the yard with such care,
In hopes that the Easter Bunny soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of Easter eggs danced in their heads;
And mamma with her night cream covering her nose,
Had just settled down for a long springtime’s doze;

When out on the lawn there arose such a noise,

I jumped up to yell at the neighborhood boys.
Those kids sounded like they were out of their minds,
I pulled back the drapes and opened the blinds.

The moon on the breast of the new fallen trash
Gave the alley below me a certain panache,
When, what to my wondering eyes should be featured,
But a miniature hot rod, and eight tiny creatures,

With a little old driver, so lively and funny,
I knew in a moment it must be the Bunny.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

“Now, Dagger! Now, Danger! Now, Badass and Ice!
On, T-Rex! On, Rudeboy! On, Bigfoot and Slice!
To the top of the porch! Someone toss me a beer!
Now dash away! Dash away before the cops can get here!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the housetop the coursers they flew,
With a carload of eggs, and the big Bunny, too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard the roof go kaput
From the prancing and pawing of each little foot.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Through the ceiling the Easter Bunny came in with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his foot to his ear,
He saw me but showed absolutely no fear.
A bundle of eggs he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes, oh, how bloodshot! He was sort of scary!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a sheep

And he said, “Hey, dude, why aren’t you asleep?”

The stump of a joint he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and he was kind of smelly,
Yet he shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right nasty old elf,
But I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye as he brandished his piece

Soon told me I should have called the police.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And took all my good stuff, then turned, the big jerk.

He left me the eggs, but who wanted them now?

And out the window he went, with an arrogant bow.

He sprang to his hot rod, to his gang gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, though it was more like a hoot

“Happy Easter to all, and thanks for the loot!”

PUMPKIN EATER VS PUMPKIN EATER: A LAWSUIT

I realize that in this clime

Poems don’t always have to rhyme,

But I DO like mine to rhyme—

All the time.  Yes, all the time.

Your concern may be for meter,

But no poem’s content could be sweeter

Than Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater,

Unless you’re Mrs. Pumpkin Eater!

She dwells within her pumpkin shell

And seems to be doing very well,

But I think that she should tell

Her chauvinistic husband to go to hell!

She is not happy.  No, she is sad.

The man she loved is quite a cad.

It is driving her quite mad

To think of husbands she could have had.

You can see it in her eyes.

You can hear it in her sighs.

Peter, Peter is no prize.

Women in your shells, arise!

Do not be a weak kneed mouse,

Tell him you demand a house

Or the rotund little louse

Will no longer be your spouse.

He must know that you have needs

That are not met by pumpkin seeds.

You need not live among the weeds.

Let him show love by his deeds.

I know he promised when you wed

That you would always have a bed

“But where?” is what you should have said.

I would have hit him on the head!

Perhaps a lawyer could quell your grief

And bring to you some sweet relief.

Ask one to please file his brief!

Now is the time—that’s my belief.

Take him for everything he’s got

              (Although he claims it’s not a lot)

             Then ask him, as an afterthought,

If he’s still glad he tied the knot!

P.S. 

Tell the miserly little elf

That he brought it on himself.

THE WOULD-BE POET

I’m telling you quite honestly

I’d love to write fine poetry.

I’d show such versatility

that everyone would honor me.

The words would come forth trippingly

as if they had a melody.

I’d write of plants; of rose and tree.

I’d be a big celebrity!

I’d write of kings and royalty

and I’d discuss humanity.

I’d write of love so wistfully,

of sadness and of joie de vie

And I would do this masterfully.

            I’d lecture universally.

I’d do this work unselfishly

(though I’d accept gratuities).

So let me add, in summary,

I’d gain much popularity.

My poems loved so zealously

that publishers would say to me,

“Write more!”  They’d beg me fervently

for poems to fill their glossaries.

They’d organize parades; you’d see

me waving at fans jauntily.

The crowds, no longer orderly,

would clamor with intensity.

The President would say, pleadingly,

“Our Poet Laureate you have to be!”

I would decline, quite modestly.

This could become insanity.

I’d have to write incessantly,

If I were to act accordingly.

There would be no more time for me

to sit and daydream lazily.

I’d be pressured overwhelmingly

to keep up this activity.

I’d hear “Please write!” repeatedly

‘til writer’s cramp took hold of me.

My brain would start to atrophy.

No one would want to be with me.

My friends, is this my destiny?

Why, in this great democracy,

Should talent push relentlessly

and rob me of my dignity?

And so I ask you, tearfully,

            is that the way it has to be

If I could write as beautifully

as I had wished for previously?

My literary wizardry

might just attack me fatally!

I’ve thought this thing out carefully

and realize the absurdity

Of living my life tragically

if I could write great poetry.

With apologies to humankind,

I fear that someday I would find

My nerves all tangled in a bind

which I, (poor soul) could not unwind,

So—never mind!!

The pen is mightier than the sword, and considerably easier to write with----fishducky