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Tag: Humor

Walking Rocky

The time is drawing near,
The dog must go outside;
To take a little walk,
Relieving his inside.

But now the snow is falling
And the wind is rather brisk,
I’d like to wait ‘til summer
But I can’t take the risk.

He’s small, his bladder likewise,
So he can’t wait that long
But still procrastinating
The waiting I prolong.

He’s dancing by the doorway,
He whines to beckon me –
Just a few more minutes
And we’ll go find a tree.

He cocks his head to listen,
To understand my plea;
Let’s get your coat and mittens
Or sorry you will be.

We do for others often
Some things we’d rather not;
But when you care for others,
This is what you’ve got.

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Thanksgiving 2017

Time to stuff a turkey’s corpse
With sage and stale bread;
He won’t mind a bit at all
‘Cause after all he’s dead.

All his feathers plucked and pulled,
He’s naked on the stove;
His neck and giblets found inside,
A hidden treasure trove.

Through the body’s cavity
You reach ‘til deep within
And fumble ‘round his empty chest
Where once his lungs had been.

Pulling out the bag of guts
To cook or to discard;
A message from the now deceased –
The turkey’s calling card.

Cremated in the oven’s wrath,
The hours pass you by;
‘Til all the body fluids drain
While all your guests standby.

Retrieve the largest knife you own
And slice it through his skin;
Then divvy up the bird’s bequest
And feed him to your kin.

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Epic Battle

An elderly couple
In Novato out west,
Had their penchant for living
Put to the test.

A man of near ninety,
At home with his wife,
Went out to do chores
And encountered the strife.

The garage he would enter
Where quickly he found,
A squirrel enraged
From nowhere would bound.

Onto his face
It leapt and began
To claw and to bite
The frightened old man.

Battling back
He’d throw the beast down,
But straight away back
It was back on his crown.

The shrieking alerted
His missus who came
Dislodging the squirrel
With her broom and her aim.

The rodent incensed
Scurried up to her face
Shredding the skin
‘Til it looked like red lace.

Bloodied in battle
The man would grab hold
Of the tail to fling it
To the floor where it rolled.

With a chance to escape
They rushed through the door
Where the neighbors had gathered
From all the uproar.

The tattered condition
Of the couple made clear,
They needed a doctor
From a hospital near.

Into the car
Of a neighboring friend,
It was off to seek help,
A means to a mend.

It’s hard to believe
That a beast of three pounds,
Could take on a couple
And go a few rounds,

But a search underway
For a squirrel unhinged
Whose malicious attack
On the peaceful infringed.

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Oso Sleeps

Fast asleep
And not a care;
No concerns,
He’s unaware.

A canine’s view
Of rabid dreamscapes,
Lost in fields
Of ether sun drapes.

There are no burdens
In his day;
No consciousness
Of life’s decay.

Contrasting lives
Of trial and measure,
A simple life
Of simple pleasure.

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Joshua Goverman,
A wannabe thief,
Discovered too late
It would lead him to grief.

Bill Bratcher, a tech,
A copper spool found
Dislodged from his truck
And the copper unwound.

So he phoned for the cops
Who arrived on the scene
And write a report
Of the copper unseen.

While sifting for clues
A finger reveal
That departed the hand
That the copper would steal.

The finger though severed
Still carried a print
They cleared it of wire
And blew away lint.

Then rolling it out
On a popsicle stick,
They lifted the print,
Quite surprisingly quick.

Compared it to files,
They fingered the catch –
Joshua Goverman,
A nine-fingered match.

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I’ve made all the rounds,
Amends I have made,
The daily disturbance
And nightmares will fade.

My wandering hound
Now safe under wrap,
Had made quite a racket
As she hunted and trapped.

A howl that echoed
Beyond many miles
And failed to produce
A singular smile.

So off to the neighbors
I traveled to tell
Of her capture informing
They’re free from her hell.

Though I knew not a one,
They all knew of me –
It’s not a good sign
That I’m good company.

But they all were forgiving,
And shared a few laughs
And told of their families,
Their own little gaffes.

I’m back in good graces,
A pariah no more –
‘Til the next time she slips
Right out of a door.

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Loaded and locked,
Six shots in its clip,
Strapped to my belt
And ridin’ my hip.

A three-eighty shell
Is chambered to go,
A laser directs –
Too high or too low.

So far, no occasion
To draw it and shoot
But it’s ready and willing
To harvest some fruit.

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Lesser Hay

It’s usually fluffy
And dry to the core –
Alfalfa and grasses,
Fescue and more.

Supplied by the Amish
To feed and sustain,
The equine triumvirate
That rules on my plain.

But the fields aren’t yielding,
The weather’s been bad –
As cold as the Arctic
And drier than Chad.

So supplies are diminished
And all that remains
Is the damp and dusty
Baled up grains.

Hard on the horse’s,
Their breathing impairs,
When eating inhaling
Through noses that flare.

But they’ve got to eat,
It’ll just have to do;
‘Til the harvest is kinder
Hay lesser they’ll chew.

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Full House

Maybe I did
And maybe I didn’t –
I haven’t a clue
And haven’t a hint.

Who can remember,
Who can recall –
With every year passed
My brain’s growing small.

I put down the phone,
I put down the keys,
Then hours I’m looking
Down on my knees.

Is it morning or night
When you first see the sun?
I’ll remember to thank you
But forget what you’ve done.

I walk in a room
And forget why I’ve come –
Two adds to two
But I can’t find the sum.

A quandary dealt
By the hours that spin
The yarns of our lives
In memory’s bin.

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