by Doug Baird
Had to vent all their pent noble rages,
But they never would shout,
Or throw sharp things about,
They just took it all out on the pages.
A bank robber ran into a problem,
When he posed as a rock star to rob them,
On the way to his car,
In a twist most bizarre,
He was killed when fans started to mob him.
An unthinking young driver from Bethpage
Crashed her car while she keyed a text message.
And the next car to stop
Was a State Highway cop
Who took five cell phone shots for his web page.
A cantankerous farmer from Greece
Raised ten goslings to sell with his niece.
When she said they got loose,
He said “One is a goose,”
“But that many… I’d call the police.”
The old theater was showing a classic,
Moldy monsters cloned from the Jurassic.
And the gore made her shrink,
So she choked on her drink,
But the peril was only thoracic.
Jack knew how to create an antique,
He had mastered the craft and technique.
And his wear marks and rust
Caused collectors to lust,
While his patinas had a mystique.
The loose rug caught my mom unawares,
And she tumbled head-first down the stairs.
But it’s not injury
That’s important to me,
It’s the money they charge for repairs.
Some new writers who met every week
Learned this lesson about the critique:
If you easily bruise
Hearing other folks’ views,
Then it hurts less to hide, than to seek.
A new Funeral Home owner named Dave
Liked to stand by a newly dug grave.
And would jolt passersby,
After catching their eye,
By proceeding to beckon and wave.
You discover, and from your dog’s ear pick
A Lyme carrier known as a deer tick.
Though you fear to go out,
There still lingers a doubt,
You may have it, though you don’t appear sick.
Though the sheep knew Bo Peep had a gun,
Slow with sleep, few could leap up and run.
They lay dead in the pasture,
And she said, when they asked her,
“Those damn [bleep] got off cheap. That was fun!”
Are those tall pillars Doric? Ionic?
Is my history book histrionic?
Are they Roman or Greek?
Were they warlike or meek?
And was Plato’s Republic platonic?
Just next door there’s a meeting on fracking,
Where folks show their concern by their yakking.
And it’s not that they care,
Just that they wouldn’t dare
Support those that their dogma’s attacking.
Use big words when you’re writing a grant.
And, though elephant ends with an ant,
If you truncate your prose
You’ll antagonize those
Who affect institutional cant.
A young woman who liked to pretend
There were freedoms she’d fight to defend,
Lectured only one thought
Must be spoken and taught,
And no other viewpoint could be penned.
A musician his mates called Ramon
Used the spit valve to clean his trombone.
And it just goes to show
[What all brass players know]
There’s a downside when you’re in the zone.
Ferdinand Dermot-Clyde Andreotti
Planned to murder and then hide the body,
But they got on his track
Cause he hadn’t the knack,
And the trunk he relied on was shoddy.
A forgetful young noble was bidden
To retrieve gold from where it was hidden.
But a league down the road,
On the horse he bestrode,
He forgot why it was he had ridden.
When a brittle boned uncle named Jase
Toppled down and knocked over a vase,
All his nephews and nieces
Had to pick up the pieces,
He had broken all over the place.
In memoirs of his last expedition
Dr. Glob made this startling admission:
To be half decomposed,
Then unearthed and exposed,
Had, for years, been his greatest ambition.
A particular lady named Ruth
Felt her smile had grown so uncouth,
She decided to venture
And replace her old denture,
Which had gotten quite long in the tooth.
When he thought he was termite infested,
A researcher took samples and tested.
But his technique was wrong,
And the tests took so long,
That the rest of the house was ingested.
I’ve no skills to fill my resume.
No credentials or honors that weigh.
And no previous year
Saw my writing appear
In a journal, I hope that’s OK?
He shouted “What’s that thing abaft!”
And the people around him just laughed.
Phyllis screamed when the creature
Thrust a clawed hand to reach her,
“Now,” he thought “no one thinks that I’m daft!”
The End
About the author:
Doug Baird is an artist and writer living in Lansing, New York, USA. Discover his art at https://www.DougBairdArt.com.