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Category: Poetry

Fore!

If you fancy the golfing
Like folks with the means,
There’s a course overlooking
Some mighty fine greens.

They’ve got a new gimmick
To draw ya’ll in
For a round or two maybe
On the grounds they’ve within.

They’ve installed a few llamas
To caddy your stroll -
Forty bucks for the pleasure
If you’re playin’ 9-holes.

They carry your clubs
As you stroke and you slice
But that’s about it,
They can’t give advice

They’re easy to train,
And more tame than a horse -
As a bonus they’ll help,
Fertilizing the course. 

To the llamas from caddies
Who say, “Thanks a lot,”
Another job lost
That the immigrants got.
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A Story to Tell

Most women are happy
When greatly endowed
With a bosom that’s ample,
Stick out in a crowd,

While men will enjoy
The view near and far,
Forever they’d feast
At a bosom bizarre.

But a certain young lady
Owes her life to her chest
And the garment she wears
In support of her breast.

Alone in her home
On the streets of Detroit,
The safety of night
A thug would exploit.

The sounds of a gun
Erupting outside
So she looked through her curtain
From her window inside.

When a bullet crashed though
The window and struck
Her underwire bra -
Misfortune’s good luck.

Deflecting the slug,
That harmlessly fell
To the ground she was left
With a story to tell. 
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Cool School

Here’s is the school
I should have gone to,
Letitz, Pennsylvania
Too bad that I’m though.

The juniors and seniors,
Have an annual bash,
Thrown for their classes
With all their class cash.

When the party is over
They all get a gift,
A memento of times
Through which they all drift.

A year ago money clips
For boys were doled out,
While the ladies got frames
For a picture to sprout.

But this year it’s tight,
The money’s constrained,
They gave ‘em a shot glass
For booze or champagne.

Now officials at Warwick
Have egg on their face,
The parents are outraged -
Hold them in disgrace.

But all I can say,
Is this school is too cool –
Though it’s possibly run
By a managing fool.
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Wonder

I wonder who’s kissing the love of my life
To the Celtic refrains of a lute and a fife.
Does he whisper to rhythms unfettered and bold
Of her heart as it beats in a ravenous hold.

Is he tracing the lines of her freckles and hair
While she thinks about others to whom he compares?
Does he murmur sweet nothings to his lover’s delight,
While she wonders how long he will be Mr. Right?

Is it passion or pleasure their silhouettes sketch
On the rose colored mattress upon which they stretch?
Does he harbor this secret from a lover or wife?
I wonder who’s kissing the love of my life.
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Alan Livingston

Once a young man named Livingston,
Died an old man at ninety-one;
  But while he was here,
  Influenced far and near,
Creating some fun for everyone.

At Capitol Records he pulled strings,
A writer, producer of kid things;
  Right after the war,
  Number 2 if you score,
Created a clown with red hair wings.

Bozo the Clown at the Circus,
Was soon every childhood’s focus.
  Red hair and big feet,
  Every child he’d greet
His hair sprouting out like a crocus.

Promoted because of successes,
Their catalogue then he assesses;
  Weak he would find,
  So stars he then signed
For records they pressed on their presses.

Sinatra’s career he would rescue,
From a series of missteps and miscues.
  The Beach Boys he signed,
  Steve Miller entwined,
And from England the Beatles he flew.

Signed them to Capital’s label,
And soon they’re on every turntable.
  Ringo and Paul,
  George and John all
Were holdin’ our hands in a fable.

Bonanza produced in his spare time,
The man fillin’ TVs in prime-time,
  With shows that he wrote,
  Produced then promote;
A man and a life lived sublime.
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Feral

Natasha’s her name
And she’s finding some fame,
  She’s feral and wooly,
A measure from tame.

They believe that she’s five,
And was barely alive
  When they found her alone
To fend and survive.

Living with dogs
She was wearing no togs;
  She was filthy and starved
In a shack made of logs.

No inches she grew
From the time she was two,
  Her nourishment sparse,
Her parents no clue.

A condition quite rare,
Russian doctors now care
  For Natasha’s afflicted -
With Mowgli compared.

She barks at the doors,
Crawls around on all fours
  She snarls at keepers
And scratches the floors.

She’s harmed to the core,
It’ll be quite a chore -
  From snarls to smiles  
Toward human rapport.
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Here’s a Sad Story

Here’a sad story
That needs to be told –
A couple of kids
Who weren’t very old.	

A front loading washer,
An inquisitive mind,
And a child named Kayley
Was soon in a bind.

She opened the door,
Climbed into the tub
Outside was her brother,
A one year-old cub.

Inadvertently leaning,
Accessibly switched,
Activated by brother
The washer then twitched.

In Mission Viejo
The four-year-old girl,
Who’d climbed in the washer
Was soon in a twirl.

She bounced off the paddles
As water poured in,
While Dopey, her brother,
Just watched with a grin.

Two-minutes of tumbling
Brought mother to bear;
It was too late for Kayley -
She’s not wash and wear.

A death accidental,
Authorities said,
But nevertheless
A little girl dead.
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Corporate Kindness

Jada Harper’s very sick,
Comatose and dying;
Her family wants to have her home
But can’t afford the flying.

At seven-years she’s been away
For treatments meant to save her;
But now it’s clear that earthly men
Can death no more deter.

Her family can’t afford the trip,
For much it would require;
A special plane with drugs and staff
In medical attire.

They reached out everywhere they could,
But little luck would find,
Until a corporate entity
Displayed a side so kind.

FedEx personnel were touched
When reading of her plight,
And so the company arranged
To cover care and flight. 

Eleven grand, a gesture small
For companies like this;
But everything to mom and dad
To place the final kiss.
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The Games People Play

An odd little game
With a bit of twist -
You shed all your clothes
With a flick of the wrist.

Josh and Amanda,
This was their plan
To throw down some rocks
And hit cars when they can.

A piece of their clothing
Remove when they struck
One of the lights
Of a car or a truck.

So up on a hillside
To an overpass hid
The pair in their clothes
To do as they’d bid.

As headlights were shattered,
Their shirts and their pants
Fell from their bodies
While exchanged they a glance.

Then back for another
And another stone threw,
‘Til they stood nearly naked
As they said they would do.

But the cops came a-calling
And took them away
And dressed them both up
In prison suits gray.

They’ll make an appearance
Fully dressed they’ll arrive
At the courtroom of honor
A defense they’ll contrive.

But filmed they both were
In the game they engaged,
And the next time they strip
They’ll be searched and then caged. 
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