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Month: October 2021

Bebe Gloten

Bebe Gloton’s her name,
She’s a doll all the same,
  And her qualities now
Are bringing her fame.

She’s packaged for sale,
To the gender female,
  With a nursing-brassiere 
That nipples avail.

So Bebe can nurse,
Coo, burp and converse,
  With an innocent child
Which some find perverse.

Protests have formed
And toy stores been stormed,
  In effort and hope
That their ways are reformed.

It’s natural to nurse,
All children see worse -
  But offended adults? 
Now that seems perverse.
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Jeffrey Schneider’s tale of woe,
Began some fifty years ago.
New York born and there he’d grow,
An ember though he’d never glow.

He knocked around most his life,
Burdens though within him rife.
Had some success but mainly strife.
And found no love and took no wife

He managed stages for awhile,
Charlie’s Angels done with style.
Nice enough and quick to smile,
Not the sort that’s prone to guile.

He made his way unknown, unseen,
And as for jobs, most times between.
He fell into the gambling scene
And but for that, his story clean.

The only folks he really knew,
Knew him when he came in view,
His parents, mom and pop, the two,
For nine years lying with the dew.

He owned a home but lost it when
The bookies came with ugly men;
Jeffrey Schneider left it then
And no one knew for where or when.

Tickets piled for five weeks
On a windshield, no one peeks;
‘Til someone does, a peek they sneak -
Beneath a blanket, his physique.

Shot himself, a bullet kissed -
Five weeks dead and he’s not missed.
Unique he’s not within our midst,
Droplets all within the mist.
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Corpus Corpulent

A lady quite large bit the dust,
Seven-fifty she weighed and robust;
  Comprised she a mass,
  This corpulent lass,
And early to death she was thrust.

She hadn’t hit fifty but died
From eating her food fully fried;
  The coroner called,
  Wondered how she’d be hauled
When after her girth he had eyed.

Undone he was not by this trouble,
A corpse in the shape of a bubble.
  A wrecker he called,
  The body was hauled,
Though they’d charge him a rate nearly double.

The family found this quite disturbing;
As a matter of fact, most perturbing.
  The neighbors all watched,
  Her dignity botched,
As they drove her away from the curbing.

“I’m sorry,” the coroner stated,
“But the lady was heavily weighted.”
  Not as I should,
  But I did what I could,
Inadvertently she’s desecrated.”

The decedent by now has been planted,
Last will and her testament granted.
  And the wrecker repaired
  From the sordid affair
Of the corpse that the truck had transplanted.
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Pasqualino, a man of Toronto,
Whose marriage had peaked at a plateau,
  Divorced his dear mate
  In nineteen nine-eight
No longer she’s Mrs. Cornelio.

Six-year old twins they were raising,
Support he soon was then paying;
  A duty he shares
  With other split pairs,
Decreed by divorce he obeying.

His wife no longer respecting
On a hunch Pasqualino suspecting,
  Sent a sample away  
  Of his own DNA
To see if it twins was affecting.

The test showed his twins had been sired
By a man that his wife more desired;
  He wasn’t the dad
  Of the twins that they had
So he stopped their support as required.
She took him to court for the payment,
She sued him, as she was the claimant;
  The court soon agreed,
  Her ex must concede,
No longer could act in abeyment.

It doesn’t seem right to be paying
For pleasure his wife found in playing
  With a lover she shared,  
  An adulterous affair,
Denying the vows he’s obeying.

The judge said, “Too bad she’s a tramp,
A harlot and devious vamp.
  But you’ll have to keep paying,
  Though she went a-straying,
With a man who would leave his own stamp.”
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Autumn Rites

The north woods are filled
With the latter day knights
Armed with the arrows
Of seasonal rites.

Hung from the branches
In chainmail vests 
Of camouflage cotton
Secure in their nests.

The quiver releasing
The arrow to bow,
Poised for the passing
Of buck or of doe.

Endless the hours
Of patience they spend
In hopes that to one
An arrow they’ll send.

Then in a moment,
Unguarded and still,
The deer is acquainted
With the arrow that kills.

The knight in his armor
Descends to the ground
To claim for his glory
The muted of sound.
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Hang onto your hats,
It’s gonna get rough;
Won’t be too long,
It’ll be soon enough.

Austrian Moslems
Are rioting in streets,
In India too
In uniform sheets.

They’ve done so in Paris
In London and Rome,
 Won’t be too long
‘Fore they’re bringin’ it home.

A nuclear bomb’s
Been tested and shows
Korea‘s a player
With its posturing pose.

The Iranian Navy’s
Been dispatched to sea,
Struttin’ their stuff
For the world to see.

And the President says
All our money’s is gone -
The ducks all in order,
Conclusion foregone.

It’s gonna get ugly,
And all that’s required
Is a catalyst moment
And we’ll all be retired.
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The leaves shakin’ free
In the gathering breeze
  That indicates fall has arrived;
The colors transforming,
Like a block of old cheese
  Upon which the mold aged and thrived.

From limbs they’ve forsaken
They fall through the air
  To cover the roadway below;
Slowly revealing
The trees standing bare,
  Mother Nature performs a strip show.

An effort recurring
To nourish the earth
  With nutrients each has to grant.
From each to another
According to worth
  Bestowing the gift of the plant.
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Snake Oil

It comes in all forms
And is readily shared;
At times it’s requested
At times it’s declared.

And as often as not,
When given it’s wrong,
But advice radiates
Like the notes of a song.

A couple from Britain,
Their little dog lost,
Sought the counsel of experts
And substantial the cost.

Simon, their Lab,
Had been gone a few days,
And the expert prescribed
A cure to amaze.

He suggested collecting
Their urine expelled
To scent mark locations
Like a dog’s thus compelled.

So they’d peed into bottles
Then traveled the street
While spilling the contents
Where dogs and pee meet.

The expert assured them
The dog’d find the scent
And return to the owners -
All safe and content.

A week’s passed to history
And Simon’s still lost –
They’ve expended some urine
And the specialist’s cost.

But the question to ask
Is why people will buy
Any hope that’s for sale
From a snake-oil guy.
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I boarded the beast
That earlier scared
This rider away
With nostrils he flared

He graciously tied,
Would saddle oppose -
Resisting the effort
He danced on his toes

Cinched him up snug,
And the bridle he took,
Looked back at the saddle,
His body he shook.

Then time for the stirrup
And I hopped on one foot
As he moseyed about -
He wouldn’t stay put.

The boot was inserted
The leg swung around,
I was up on the beast
And looked down at the ground.

10-stories high
Or taller I’m sure,
A long way to fall
When your bones are mature.

A gentle pull right
And we’re off for a ride
Around the arena
Aboard as he’d stride.

Like a statue he stood
When dismounting my steed,
To the stable then led him
With bridle as lead.

A wonderful feeling
Confronting the fear
Of a horse with the view
Of a renegade steer. 
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