Shelf Monkey

stdClass Object
(
    [cid] => 717
    [pid] => 0
    [nid] => 1503
    [subject] => Wednesday, June 17, 2009
to
    [comment] => 
Wednesday, June 17, 2009

to Jennifer Hale, Pop Culture
RE: Manuscript Submission RE Pop culture humor
Dear Editors:
     I have already finished a humor manuscript. I plan to make it a two volume set (85,000+  words each) on humor. Nearly half of it is humorous poetry on the form of ironies, satires, and parodies. It is composed of stories, quips. poems. and puns. The length is 900 pages in New Times Roman 12 point type. Poems and lists were single spaced. Parts between poems or headings and the first line of text were double spaced,
     I have saved my manuscript in another form by pulling out only the humorous poetry part (75,000+ words). That alternative would be to make a humorous poetry edition of 400 pages It could be published in 2 stages- the 400 pages of humourous poetry then the complete 900 pages later covering many genres of humor, including the humorous poems.
     Following your guidelines on the internet, I will describe the uniqueness of my humour work in that it is a marriage of fun and education. That is the uniqueness of it. A genre of humor is explained, and followed by humorous examples, stories, puns, and poems. At the end of each section, there is a work page to give the reader some educational exercises related to that humor theme. That is another uniqueness to it. 
     High school English students and teachers would benefit from the education and they would enjoy the humor. College students and instructors would also benefit in much the same way. In fact, there is enough educational and humourous appeal to reach out to all adults in the United States, United Kingdom, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, etc. It was written to mass appeal/
     I cover all from history to politics to love to war, to food, and so on. Materials up to now that combines fun and education and reader involvement have been short. This is as true for original works as well as anthologies. That is why this work is needed.
     The education makes this book necessary for students, for teachers, and for the general public. The need for enjoying humor does also. I believe that the humor is the primary consideration, and education and reader exercises are secondary but important. Libraries may classify it under humor.
     What these two volumes would do for you at is that it would  give much deeper penetration into your market niche of humor. It will reach beyond that to just about all

lovers of humor. I also foresee it as even interesting people who love poetry, especially humorous poetry. 
     Herein, I have included with this letter the table of contents of both volumes which shows all the literary genre exposited in the complete 900 page version. This Table of Contents then becomes my outline. The 400 pages of humorous poems that I lifted out in my extra saved version were scattered about the complete text.  Rather than give you the first chapter by itself, I think that it makes sense here to give a little bit of the total picture, then to give samples of my humorous poetry.
      My goal is to get these published into a hardcover edition and then to follow them up later with a paperback issue. I live near several Barnes & Noble and Borders bookstores. To help market the products, I would be just thrilled to give brief author talks at these places and even schedule book signings,.
     I will also show it to all the hundreds of my friends at Toastmasters and also to whomever when I give a speech outside of club. I have been a professional speaker for 26 years, have won at the club level and beyond in The International Speech and in the Humorous Speech Contests many times with Toastmasters. 
     Practically all the material in the manuscript is original material from my many humourous speeches. I attend Chamber of Commerce events for 2 cities and for the county, and that gives me a lot more local networking. 
Thanking You,
John Herbert Hays (“Herb Hays”), Masters of Science in Business Management, age 61).

Special Accounts Representative, United States Postal Service

PO Box 8731

Ft Lauderdale FL  33310-8731

954-895-3555

Jherberthays@aol.com

Sample Humor

FUN & PUNS GAMES WITH POETRY AND PARODIES
BY
***HERB HAYS***
Rushers
Fools rush in where angels fear to go to bed.

Angels rush out when fools that poet read.

Parodists rush in where few poets tread.

Poets rush out when parodists are done and said.
A CROC OF (after Carroll)
How doth the little crocodile improve his shining tail?

How cheerfully he seems to grin

And welcome little fishes in?

How does the little crocodile grin and smile?

Because he sharpens his teeth on the reef.

How neatly he spreads his claws

and welcomes little fishes in with gently smiling jaws!

He sharpens his incisors

On wayward Grand Viziers

And on careless see-sighters. 
MURDER!
He thought he saw a lawyer killing a viper

Telling the other viper not to be so hyper.

The Judge said to the lawyer: “You are charged with a capital offense.

Who are you going to find as a witness for your defense? 
SEASONS GREETINGS 
Seasons Greetings

Merry Christmas

Nollaig Chridheil

Gael

In an Irish dale

Vesele Vianoce

Slovak

And thanks for Dvorak

Feliz Navidad

Spain

Even on your plain

Joyeux Noel

France

The First Noel to enhance

Maligayang Pasko

Filipino

Es muy fino

Christmas Omedeto

Nippon

With your bright red sun

Christmas Mubarak

Farsi

Iran, Iraq, and to Tarsus

Frohe Wienhachten

Deutschland

Christmas fairyland

Pari Zanoont

Armenian

Sing on

A Rozhdestvom

Ruski

Even your wolfhounds and huskies

Feliz Natal

Portugal

Boys and gals

Christmas Mubarrak Ho

India

See ya

Happy Hanukkah

Israeli

Happiness daily

Happy Kwanzaa

Afro-Americans

So jubilant in their dance
Bureaucracy (after Longfellow) 
Tell the bard that not in mournful bumblers

That government is but an empty dream,

For hoodwinked voters are dead that encumbers,

And lawmakers are not to be seen,

Civic life is real.

Life is earnest,

And things are not as they seem,

And the budget is not a harness,

Disgusted as thou eyes has seen,

Government is in a fiscal hole,

Which was not The Founders goal.

So vote the rascals out

On the next bout.

And now, sayeth the poll….
Laundry (after Wordsworth)
I laundered lonely in the crowd

That soaps on high over hots and chills,

Which, all at once I heard aloud,

A toast to the laundry load fills

Beside the laundry beneath the oak tree

Washing and rinsing with my Febreze.

In pensive mood, the time I abide

As I reached for some more Tide.

In the Laundromat I stood

Trying not to be a real grouch,

For all I can do today is to brood

And think about my fluttering old couch.
Ecology (after Wordsworth)
The world is too much to cuss, hate, and intone

Getting and spending, we lay waste and not sown.

Little we see in nature as we cower.

We have driven our cars at bay much too soon.

The sea that we taxpayers ruin,

The winds that will be howling at our stinging brows

And are slathered up like heaping whiskey sours.

For this, for everything

Upon ourselves we bring

As we have been playing the wrong tune.

It makes Wordsworth and me hot

To trot!

 Fate nod!

I’d rather see

A quaking buckled in a dead adorned

Acorn

So might I standing on this hesitant,

Stance

I can see

How limps that caused us to make laws foregone.

In remedy, have light protein arising from the bean

To stay good and lean

 And the pea,

Or hear and be told,

To fold

As we are forewarned by me.
Of Thee (after Smith)
My pun tree tease of thee,

Sweet book of parody,

To thee I bring.

Land of the grinning side

Land of the splitting side

To thee I bring

A sense of humor to ring.

From a good laugh to a roar,

They‘ll come asking for more..

To laugh till they all cry.

From valleys to mountains high

They’ll just die

To see.

My pun tree tease of thee,

Sweet land of parody.

To thee I bring.
Pachyderms (after Frost)
An elephant in a poetic fable

Ran across the dormant

Poet’s doormat

That covered his telegraph cable.

Of many times the cable’s size.

The trodden cable :

Said ,“Ouch!”

And cries.

The elephant’s poetry wasn’t a rhyme

As it scarcely spoke a metrical line

Or could the poet pull an acrobat

Out of his poetic hat?

If the elephant did,

It couldn’t stay hid.

The lines would sway

And the stanzas would sag.

Could this elephant verse run

Or will it just pun

With the elephant’s trunk

And write some more poetic bunk?

It’s high time

For a new rhyme.

We need new poetic space

In haste.

The elephant’s got a curious look

To be put into any poetry book.

Do you want more to read?

Then just heed!

The verse needs a little rest

As it is somewhat messed

And needs a partial abort

To justly report

The deposited new words

For hips and for nerds.

The elephant

Is adamant.

Let us curry

To bring this poem to a close

And to repose.

Let us wrap it up

In time for sup,

So sayeth Herb, the bard.

This isn’t hard.

And bringing peanuts

Is a must.

So, be happy,

Not crappy.

Elephant, come blow your trunk

To end this bunk

Let it honk loudly into the air

With care.

At the elephant, stop staring

At his blatant blaring.

He can be gentle,

And that’s the Pachyderm departmental.

PS: If you write it again

Or find a new way to begin,

So, poet, just be gentle

(Or sign it, L. E. Phant),
Hey, Boys

Hey, Boys Your toys

Are a joy.

So sayeth the pearled

Girls.

Madame,

It all started with Adam.

Adam

Had

‘Em.

He sure had

“Em

With Eve’s Apple).

It wasn’t the pear

From the tree.

It was the pair

On the ground,

You see.

They discovered fashion-

Fresh fig leafs to ration.

Cain

Was a bane.

Abel

Couldn’t find a Mabel,

And that’s no fable.

Cain

In disdain

Slew Abel’s

Cable.

So,

To make for ‘mo,

Along came Seth

To give the rest of us our breath.

Then Cain

In mental pain,

Got tossed out

To pout.

So, the lesson of Eden

Needs to be a-heedin’;

Next time,

For no crime,

Buy Snapple

(That’s Snapple,

Apple

To grieve.

(It wasn’t Snapple

Not the Schuylkill

Philly

Scrapple)

As your apple.

PS: The snake’s

Headed for the lake,

(The lake of fire)

As The Liar.

But there’s hope

To cope,

No worry,

And that’s the story

Of Adam’s rib,

And that’s no fib.
Measure for Measure 
Hello, Mr. Inch,

I still love you in a pinch.

Some unduly elected body of elder

Welders

Called for to send

An end

To the system of English measurements.

Herb Hays, the funny bard,

Still love the inches and the yards.

Thy feet

Can’t be beat,

Even the metrical foot

Into these verses I put

Are to stay

For another heyday.

For the real gallon,

We are still rallying.

The pounds

Are in bounds.

Gallon.

Pint,

Gallon.

Pint,

Quart,

Gallon,

Is our rallying.

The ounce

I still love to pronounce

To stay on the English measurements

Hence,

The quart and the ounce

To pronounce Pounds!

Hail

To prevail!

Mr. Ruler.

Tell me you never fool her.

Mr. Ruler, please stay our ruler

To drool over ‘ya.

I just witnessed from his cup

That ye still measures my sup

So, yes to poetic meters,

No to metered meters

And liters And centimeters

And kilometers.

We’re a bit tidier and neater.

Kilogram.

You just got body-slammed!

The only meter I will take

Is the cup of flour for my cake,

And meter for these poetic lines

Of mine, These lines

Of mine

 Keep the inch

In a pinch.

Ruler”

You’re cooler

Inch

By inch,

Slowly I turn….

Been to Niagara lately??
Barkers (after Pope)
I am the parodists’ dog at Roo.

Whose poet are you? 
Classical Education 
From

First

To last,

Alpha

To Zeta,

And on through Beta,

Greek

Drove me up a creek.

To learn, it’s tough

And rough

To yearn

To learn anew

For any crew.

So,

I do

Study harder

In the Athenian  agora

To barter
Of Thee (after Smith)
My pun tree tease of thee,

Sweet book of parody,

To thee I bring.

Land of the grinning side

Land of the splitting side

To thee I bring

A sense of humor to ring.

From a good laugh to a roar,

They‘ll come asking for more..

To laugh till they all cry.

From valleys to mountains high

They’ll just die

To see.

My pun tree tease of thee,

Sweet land of parody.

To thee I bring.
“Tis of See (after Key)
Jose, can you see by the stanza’s parodies’ light,

Who so humorously wrote us the lighthearted verse?,

The parodies, poems, and verse, to the editor’s delight.

See the fun books we parodists are humorously laughing,

And the books’ light fare,

And the breeches bursting in every chair,

The light they  parody we hailed the humor crowd

Over the books of the humorous raved

And the home of the humor-craved.
 Alphabet Alliteration Soup For Authors:
An adversarial adjective army alphabetically arrayed

Besieged beleaguered booksellers by blade.

Caustic commandoes! Clerihews come cussing, conjugating clubs,

Deliver delirious dogs demanding diabolical dactylic dubs!

Enter each essayist endeavoring enigmatic editorial essays

For fame, fun, fortune fighting furious fanatical fray.

Grammarians grin grievously. Gerunds go gaga

Harassing hounded humorists’ hackneyed hahas.

Inflated innuendos indiscriminately idyllic. Iambic I? I?

Jabbering jerious joker juggernauts jeer January? Just July?

Kill kinky kindred kleptomaniacs! Kill kindred kind

Lampooning lipogramatic language love’s labors lost lastly lined.

Manuscripts misspell merciless misquoted malaprophic mounds,

Never nefarious, notorious nasty novel nouns.

Of outward outrageous oxymoronic odes opposing ones,

Parsing pronouns, pushing palindromes past parodied puns,

Quick! Quoteth Quixotic quaking quick quivers,

Rhyming riotous righteous revolting rhythmic rivers!

Silly smoking Spoonerisms send stanzas sanguinary speech.

Truce to thee, tasteless troopers trying to tell to teach.

Under unctuous unjust, unnecessary unmerciful univocals.

Vanish verbose vengeful vices! Vane verbs’ verse vocals

With wayward wordsmiths wincing whys writing without waivers!

Xerxes! Ximenes! X-rated! Xavier? Xavier?

Ye youthful yeomen, yield your yap!

Zounds! Zoroaster! Zeus! Zanies zapped!

And around  April, armistice against augmentation apt!  
Alphabet Alliteration Soup For Censors:
An avaricious arresting army alphabetically arrayed

Besieged beleaguered bombastic bookmen by blade.

Conform commandos! Clerihews come cussing, capturing clubs,

Deliver delirious dogs demanding dedicated dactylic dubs!

Enter erasing each essayist, endeavoring enigmatic erstwhile essays

For fame, fun, fortune, fighting furious fanatically fomenting fray.

Grammarians grin grievously, gerunds go gaga,

Harassing hounded humorists’ hackneyed hahas.

Ignoble innuendos indiscriminately into idyllic iambics! Iambic I? I?

Justly jabbing jerious joker juggernauts jamming January. Just July?

Kill kinky kindred kleptomaniacs! Kill kindred kinky kind kooks

Lampooning lipogramatic language love’s labors lost lastly lined looks

Manuscript’s messages make malaprophic melodious mounds,

Never nefarious, notorious nudging nasty novel nouns.

Of outward outrageous oxymoronic odes opposing ones,

Pursuing poets pushing palindromes past parodied puns

Quick! Quoteth Quixotic quaking quick quelling quilled quivers,

Resisting rhyming riotous revolting rhythmic rivers!

Stopping silly Spoonerisms send stanzas sanguinary speech.

Truce to thee, tasteless troopers trying theatrics to teach.

Under unctuous unjust, unnecessary unmerciful univocals.

Vanish verbose vengeful vices! Vane verbs’ verse vocals!

With wayward wordsmiths wincing whys writing without waivers!

Xerxes! Ximenes! X-rated xiphoidic xylophonists. Xavier? Xavier?

Ye yelling youthful yeomen, yield your yap!

Zounds! Zoroaster! Zeus! Zanies zapped!

And around April, armistice against augmentation apt!  
The Apostrophe
O little apostrophe

Hung way up there,

Do you need some air?

You have no stick

To kick

Or backbone

To condone,

Stuck way up there.?

O little apostrophe

Will this little ditty

Bring to me

Another little poetic fee?

O kittle apostrophe,

Are you a little hooker up there?

With no support  to bear.

We use you to show possession

In our verses’ procession..

You tell me something belongs to someone

And say. “Hands off. It’s his! Run!”

Speak to me

Apostrophe

Some things belong to me, too.

And not to you.

To me!

And not thee!

Then I’ll know

You’re not my foe.
A Different Kind of Bedtime Story
Long ago when that restaurant was a good place

Renown by all as a place with a really good cook.

My Mission Brigade savored the good tastes.

But now they changed the cook with a dirty look.

There was a time when the food was good gumbo.

And even the Boy Scout Troop ate there,

But now all feel they have to give a loud boo.

We wanted to tan the new cook’s hide bare.

Earlier we had good dinners for pleasure

Savoring good chef creations that I well remember.

The steaks, fish, and chops were good by any measure,

That new poisonous cook we’d love to dismember!

Now we’re drafted and off to the wars,

But followed by that nutty cook ,for goodness sakes!

The Army drafted him to follow and make our courses,

To taunt us with his hard as steel pancakes.

Of all the luck, by fate’s weird encounter,

We wished that for the enemy he would bake.

Amongst hundreds of other cooks to encounter,

After eating, one orderly jumped into the lake.

History books will tell how we won the war

Despite dozens of men being sick or dead,

But we knew what we were fighting for,

To make sure that his credentials are pre-read.

Let us hope that this cook was soon to be gone,

One whose middle name has to be  Mud.

I  went to the Army dentist to dislodge his buns

Wondering if he fed us a cow’s cud.

Sitting beneath a large tree nursing a sore jaw.

But knowing that we still had to endure

Cutting his steaks up with a power saw,

I hoped for fast relief with an Alka Seltzer cure.

Gasping for air, all the other soldiers,

Ran from him hoping that he was never born.

The generals, if alive, told us men to be bolder

Even if all of us had to mourn.

So, let us eternally silence his spatula and ladle

And trade him over to an unbeknownst enemy

To make sure that the infliction on them was fatal

And that the world would gasp for a remedy.

If we had done so sooner, there would be no Kaiser

As we would win the war by feeding hid troops.

We would know that we, no four generals, were wiser

Since we could find  thousands of empty enemy boots.

Our troops would be able to cross the lines

Defending ourselves from getting that cook back

Hoping that neither we nor they would never find

Him and on the war close the book.

Look! Our squadrons are free! They’re on the go

Determined to hand the enemy all our messes.

Now we know how to win this war and destroy our foe

And send them to their funerals with red roses.

After that war was over and through,

We all went home, but only to find,

Guess who?

Back at the old place to cook and dine.

Of all the screwy turns of fate,

We knew that we had really lost the are war.

We drove by the cemetery gate

Hoping to see a banner saying:

“He cooks no more.” 
Dottie
O little period,

O little period,

Do you only conclude

The sentences’ mood?

So, this I jot-

That you are only a little dot.

You tell me when to stop.

You’re never atop,

Just at the bottom of the line.

So far down there, do you feel fine?

You’re stuck down there,

But you never care?

You never speak

A squeak

In the main.

At least, you are in the groove

Telling me not to move.

Are you just some kind of a cop

Telling me to stop?

Period.
To Court
He saw a lawyer killing a viper

On a dunghill heard by the fence:

And the judge smiled and said:

“Are ya’ gonna’ testify for his defense?”
The Paths (after Byron)
There is a pleasure in the courses I stood.

There is a rapture in the only one I adore.

There is society when none broods

By the deep sea, and music on the shore.

I love not man the less but poets I adore.

From these our views from which I fled

From all I may see or have seen more.

To mingle with this jingle, you’re dead.

What I am never supposes a parodied wage.

Roll on, thou deep blue poetic ocean’s soul.

Ten thousand verses sweep over thy bounding pages.

Man marks the earth with his digging into a hole.

He sinks into thy depths with a bubbling moan

Without a grave, unknelled with many chances blown.

Time writes no verse on thy azure such as creation’s dawn.

City, behold thou rollest cross my bow drawn,

Dark heaving boundless, endless, and prime,

The image of reading Byron every time

And I, hath loved thee, ocean, as my own.

Of youthful sports, which were on thy crest to see

Bourne like the bubbles onward, form my joy,

I wandered looking for Byron’s key.

Here, key!

Here key!
The Boss (after Longfellow)
I shot an arrow into the air.

It fell I know not where.

It struck my boss in the derriere

And made him spill his Perrier. 
Half A Pint (after Tennyson)
Half a pint

Half a pint,

Half a pint

Forward

Came the six hundred,

All in the valley to the bar of Betz.

Pour the Miller Lite like water.

Is there a barfly dinged?

Not only the darker brews.

Having fun,

My man,

The Fire Marshall came by,

But not to get high,

So, someone blundered

And he thundered.

They pushed him out

With a pout.

This is why they ask for pardon,.

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs just to drink or die.

Into the bar of Betz came the six hundred.

Beer drinkers to the left of them,

Barflies to the right of them,

Bar bills in front of them,

Barstools behind them.

Into the cash register paid the six hundred.

Into the mouth to quell.

Drink and storm the loo

Pall

Mall.
Author House
Little iamb, who wrote thee?

Dost that know who made the key?

Give thee rhyme and bid these heed

By this satire over thee, I plead.

Give thee meters of seamless flight,

Softest, doting,  and bully right,

Give thee such a rhythmic noise

Making all thy stanzas such a poor choice.

Little iamb, who made your meter free?

Dost thou know who made thee see?

Little iamb, I’ll gently yell at thee.

Little iamb, you fell there.

Call a spade a spade and no one to blame,

For it still insists it is an iamb.

It is not to seek and is meter wild.

It became a piddle, so I dealt..

It smiled, and though you call yourself an iamb,

We are appalled by this silly game.

We are appalled by this silly game.

Little iamb

I parody thee.

Little iamb,

Blake penned thee.
An Animal Bestiary
I heard a loon

Bark at a baboon

I heard a dog

Quack at a frog

I heard a duck

Bark at a woodchuck

I heard a zebra

Meow at an amoeba

I heard a cat

Honk at a bat

I heard a seal

Whisper to a weasel

A heard a puppy

Shriek at a guppy

I heard a shark

Sing to a lark

I heard an eagle

Hum to a beagle

I heard a donkey

Ask for directions from a monkey

I heard a blue jay

Growl at a stingray

I heard a gnat

Laugh at a rat

I heard a fox

Baa at a lox

I heard a jackal

Gab with a mackerel

I heard a sandpiper

Scold a viper

I heard a ram

Read a love letter to a dam

I heard a sloth

Cry on the shoulder of a moth

I heard a conch

Bash an auk

I heard an otter

Praise a rottweiler

I saw a tortoise

Suing a porpoise

I saw an oyster

Eloping with a pointer

I saw a nightingale

Write a letter to a snail.

I saw a parrot

Cha-cha with a ferret

I saw a whale

Kiss a quail

I saw an ass

Foxtrot with a bass

I saw a goose

Hug a mongoose

I saw an elephant

Marry an ant

I saw a shrimp

Jail a chimp

I saw a walrus

Vote for an albatross

I saw a snail

Dating a Clydesdale

I saw a ruffled grouse

Chauffeuring a mouse

I saw a walrus

Deliver a speech to a hippopotamus

Massaging a duckbill platypus

Finally, I heard a bee

Screaming at me

Because a coxcomb

Helped me to write this silly poem
Seasons Greetings
Seasons Greetings

Merry Christmas

Nollaig Chridheil

Gael

In an Irish dale

Vesele Vianoce

Slovak

And thanks for Dvorak

Feliz Navidad

Spain

Even on your plain

Joyeux Noel

France

The First Noel to enhance

Maligayang Pasko

Filipino

Es muy fino

Christmas Omedeto

Nippon

With your bright red sun

Christmas Mubarak

Farsi

Iran, Iraq, and to Tarsus

Frohe Wienhachten

Deutschland

Christmas fairyland

Pari Zanoont

Armenian

Sing on

A Rozhdestvom

Ruski

Even your wolfhounds and huskies

Feliz Natal

Portugal

Boys and gals

Christmas Mubarrak Ho

India

See ya

Happy Hanukkah

Israeli

Happiness daily

Happy Kwanzaa

Afro-Americans

So jubilant in their dance

Happy Holidays

To many these days

Merry Christmas

Io the masses,

To the Christians:

Good night!

That’s right!
Through the Nose
Deep in the heart of Taxes

There’s taxes and cactuses.

Here, here, everywhere,

For your home lair.

You pay through the nose:

Money  blows.

Tax my goat,

Take away my tote.

Tax my coat,

I can’t stay afloat.

Tax my job,

Even for the whole mob.

Tax my pants:

I’m in a trance.

Tax my shirt:

Tax her skirt.

This is curt!

That, too, hurts.

Tax my smoke;

I’m going broke.

Tax my cow,

Even my bowwow.

Tax my mule;

Now, it’s getting’ cruel.

Tax my oil

And barbed wire coil,

Tax my gas-

Will this ever pass?

Tax my notes

And my boats.

Tax my cash-

For dinner tonight?-hash.

Tax me good,

Got pickles?

No.

We’re in a pickle

Under the hood.

But his I know:

After taxes I have no dough,

If I holler,

They’ll grab my collar.

They’ll tax me more

To the core.

Tax me till I’m sore,

Even my fishing lure.

They’ll tax my coffin,

Tax my bran muffin.

Tax me to the grave,

Even with what I shave.

Tax the sod that holds my bones,

And the marker stones

Place these words on my tomb:

“Taxes drove me to my doom.

And after I’m gone, you can’t relax,

For, you get the inheritance tax.”

Deep in the heart of Taxes.

Yippee Kai Yay

Deep in the heart of Taxes!
Baa On You (after Burgess)
I never saw a purple Billy goat ,

I never hope to be one;

But I can tell you what I wrote:,

If I saw one, I’d run!

Hail to thee, blithe spirit;

Billy goat thou never wert,

Just to bear it,

With thee never flirt.

Playest thy full part

Thou this parody’s  star

In purple lines of unprecedented art,

So neat, yet so far.

But opened then I flung my shutter

And with many a baa and a flutter

In there stepped a purple Billy goat,

I don’t know just how, but I note

That he gaily tipped around my floor,

Perched himself above my door.

On a dusty bust of Poe perched,

Ready to lurch,

Above my door:

Nevermore!

And that purple Billy goat unflitting

Still is sitting- still is sitting

On that dusty bust of Poe,

Raise the ante, you know.

Just above my chamber door,

And his horns have all the seeming

Of a scared poet that is screaming,

And the arc-lights o’er him streaming,

And beaming;

Casts his shadow on the floor.

That shadow on the floor:

Shall be lifted, nevermore!

He dwelt upon the untrodden ways

Besides the springs of Oh Tease,

A Billy goat whom there were few to praise,

And very few to see,

A Billy goat of purple is a joy forever,

A new song to sing,

Sing so clever,

And a happy tune to ring.

And yet he stinks.

I think.
Odd Man Out (after Shelley)
I met a vendor at an antique stand

Who said, “Two vast and truthful legs on loan

Stand in the dust out behind the stand,

Half each a shattered shard or a vase lies windblown

And wrinkled legs and sneer to hold its hands

Tell that they’re still acceptable for a trough of feed.

Which one is most serviceable of these lifeless ‘kings’?

The band that rocked them, and the cast that led

To they being on the potter’s wheel, inscribed: “

“Hear: My Mom and Dad were the ruler of many things.

Look on my own quirk, ye mighty, and see the pair.”

Nothing else so blessed remained.

He found the way. I’d say,

Of thy colossal pottery wreck and bounded out in haste.

The tone and good stand stretched that truth far at bay.
Hooked on Hoods (after Frost)
Whose hoods these are these?

I Think I know, my dear,.

They jumped for joy in the village rue.

He may not be shopping today around here

To watch those shopping bags fill with stuff new.

My little jalopy must think it kind of queer

To shop without a parking garage near.

Between the hoods and the frozen lake,

The darkest evening of the year is here.

I gave my oogah horn a and good squonk and a quake

To see if there is someone’s parking spot to take.

The only other sound was my honking at a road hog

So as not to clog

The parking lot

About which I jot,

To ease him out of the wind and the downy snowflakes.

My old hood is lovely and my oogah loves to beep

Because this bard sees piles of traffic jams To keep

Before he again beeps

And piles

To go before he again beeps.

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