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 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;
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.
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,
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.
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:
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!”
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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
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.
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
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,