PoemStranger.com

Welcome to PoemStranger.com!

2011-10-18T11:30:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

Welcome to www.PoemStanger.com/ . For many years close friends have been chagrined, embarrassed and entertained by my unique way of paying them tribute. I call it whit and wisdom and satirical lyrics. My friends don't call it anything, at least not to my face. They seem to tolerate me however, and always show up at the appointed time whenever a new victim is bound and gagged and hung over the fire. They willingly supply me with ammunition for the next event when it's somebody else's turn. There is no end in sight and I'll keep doing it for as long as there are new birthdays, weddings, funerals and office parties. Mixed in with the roasts, toasts and troasts are the other pieces, poems, pearls and projects as composed over the years. Keep coming back often, as I add new content. Things will always change.

The Poem Stranger

Socialized Sports

2011-10-18T11:15:00.000-07:00

The issue of sports has problems of sorts, there’s way too much freedom to choose.

Free enterprise rules the day, the fans have to pay since players are paid not to loose.

With that monetary incentive, players get inventive, sometimes compelled to cheat.

We should even up things, with changes that brings, eliminate the need to compete.

We’re teaching in schools that points are poor tools. Low scores breed lower esteem.

And winning and loosing leads to abusing when you pick the last kid for the team.

I’d have to guess that it’s producing success, It’s a good thing eliminating shame.

Athletes in the future will never get a suture. You should never get hurt in a game.

When you force kids to struggle, there are values to juggle; loosing causes pain.

So, it should all be for fun, no one’s to be outdone. We have higher ethics to gain.

We’ll need plenty of rules. Athletes are fools. We’ll protect them from themselves.
Grandstanding, physical manhandling, n’ overachievement belong on the shelves.

Since every sport is unique, let’s take a peek at each one of them, one at a time.

We’ll alter the rules in parallel with the schools, pro sports will become sublime.

Basketball is problematic, it's way too erratic, there's too much running around.
Let's change conditions to indicate positions; the shooter shoots from a mound.

The more rules of course create Infractions to enforce, we’ll double the referees.

A foul to be committed jumping higher then permitted, nothing higher then your knees.

Averaged players can attend, the top height is five-ten, only medium build allowed.

It wouldn’t be fair to earn more then your share, because you’re physically endowed.

Unless you are fat, we can tolerant that, after all we’ve been taught it’s a disease.

We’re striving to connect to be politically correct, a goal to appease and to please.

Baseball's another matter, we'll make the bat fatter, depending of course on your stats. If your average is lower, they'll have to pitch slower while swinging the biggest of bats.

But if you’re too good, then you get less wood and they might throw the ball a bit faster.

If he’s a little taller, then the ball could be smaller, thus avoiding a lopsided disaster.

Absolutely no stealing, that’s so unappealing, we’ve learned since birth that it’s wrong.

You must run to each base with a steady pace so that both teams can all get along.

The team that scores first has their score reversed and the run goes to the other side.

Remember the purpose, value for purchase, In a perfect game the score would be tied.

They’re paid slightly more depending on the score, but more money goes to the loser.

By incorporating these ways, everyone plays, so the winner is no longer the abuser.

We’re eliminating all greed by paying what they need, creating a paradigm shift.

It’s not based on charity but it gets rid of disparity thus giving the industry a gift.

As it is teams can hire or even selectively fire to achieve some willy nilly transaction.

To be politically correct, you’re not allowed to select, there has to be affirmative action.

Players are not chattel to be bought like cattle. They can switch sides at any time.

They won’t have to be slaves selling aftershaves, or be victims of organized crime.

These problems are absolved with the government involved; people owning the teams!

Achieving honest prosperity, while ending barbarity, there’s equality attaining the means.

Football is lame, a game of fortune and fame. The entire objective has been corrupted.

This fighting for the ball needs an overhaul. Every few seconds the game interrupted.

After each concussion, they have a discussion how to make their attack more sadistic.

Each brutal confrontation creates a sensation. It’s bloodthirsty, immoral and capitalistic.

I hereby propose to socialize the pros and turn the whole thing back into a game.

Slap a government tax on unhealthy snacks, and get rid of that dumb hall of shame.

The quarterback will be throwing to a player not knowing which team will receive it.

He’ll be blindfolded for fun, turned around and spun then given the ball to heave it.

Between plays they’ll huddle, make friends and cuddle forming bonds that are trusting

No more 3 hundred pounds and grunting sounds, a concept thoroughly disgusting.

To make it less competitive, the coaches get a sedative. Every one is a happy fellow.

No screaming and yelling, just grinning and jelling. Create a game far more mellow.

When it’s government owned and the players are stoned, it’s like the welfare we know.

With the tax payer as debtor, that’s gott’a be better otherwise they wouldn’t let it grow.

So, if you’re objecting, I’m merely projecting and enhancing the trends we’re supporting.

If you like liberals in control, know that this is their goal, to adopt the ideas I’m courting.

A Message to the Grads of 2010

2010-06-15T11:29:00.000-07:00

To the moms and dads and two thousand and ten grads, the class of “sixty” salutes.

We thought it would be nice if we imparted some advice as a way of tracing our roots.

Fifty years has gone by, in but the blink of an eye, and some of us got left far behind.
So right out of the blue, you’re gonna loose a few, but hopefully life will be kind.

Some graduated with honors, some of us were goners an’ hid out south of the equator.
Some kept in touch, and others, not so much but they showed up 50 years later.

You see a familiar face, that time can’t erase and you instantly know that you knew him.
And another you’ll ponder, from where did he wonder and what did the lord do to him?

We’ve had countless careers from engineers to volunteers that each of us had to probe.
We went in every direction of individual selection and literally encompassed the globe.

Some lifestyles are varied, some sweethearts got married we produced over 800 kids.
Grandchildren abounding, the number’s astounding with more on the way God forbids.

We should apologize for the terrible surprise that the world is going to hell in a basket.

It never needed changing or even rearranging. But somehow we put it in a casket.

Life was a little shorter, but gas was a quarter and a case of beer was only two dollars.
But that needed improving, we had to get moving, we were most intelligent scholars.

Someone made the decision no more free television. We can even charge for water.
It was free from the hose, now we pay through the nose just like a lamb at the slaughter.

You have little rice rockets and metric sockets, but your cars are front wheel driven.
We had fifty five Chevys and hemi-head heavies. That our cars were better is a given.

You might be fond’a that little old Honda, but let’s see you keep it for fifty more years.
Because I’m afraid, you’ll push it to the parade, there won’t be any gas it appears.

We had American made, but we improved on trade and sent all our jobs overseas.
To continue the life you’ve enjoyed, to remain employed, you all better learn Chinese.

Tattoos were for sailors or those friendly with jailers, now people are painted like lizards.
If there’s a way to do it, and see their way to it, they’ll have you tattooing your gizzards.

We had food made to order, cigarettes were a quarter now they’re six dollars a pack.
There wasn’t an answer to the question of cancer even doctors were smoking a stack.

So before you get started and join the departed remember, they’re now proven killers.
They’ll get you to try them and hook you to buy them and stuff them with vitamin fillers.

At three hundred a carton the price will be smart’in but someone will jack up the profit.
And the government will tax it, if no one will axe it and people are willing to cough it.

It’s like pick up sticks when you improve politics, every movement disturbs the pile.
So with every little blunder, we threw on more lumber. You guys will be busy for a while.

Cast your nets worldwide, when problems collide, most of you’ll be in your prime.
When your kids give birth, we’ll be stepping off this earth, some say it’s just in time.

As you look down range, be careful what you change, be true to the founding fathers.
For it’s easy to get snowed and thereby erode the things that you thought to be bothers.

Try to take stock and maybe turn back the clock, give our flag that needed protection.
We hand you a mess, but if I had to guess, you’ll take the world in a better direction.

The Poem Stranger

Roasting Marsha

2010-05-05T15:19:00.000-07:00

Jeff's 40th Birthday Roast

2010-05-05T14:31:00.000-07:00

Frogs in the Pot

2010-04-23T19:09:00.000-07:00

Every frog in the pot knows it’s too damned hot. We’re hopping mad and in a stew.

We’re mad at Osama. We’re mad at Obama and we’re mad at his Socialist crew.

He’s a cracker Jack and we want our country back. He’s taking us down the drain.

We’re tired of this quack, he’s on the wrong track; clearly we’re on the wrong train.

If you like graft and greed then keep Harry Reed, but I say he’s nothing but a louse.

And I’ll trade Nancy Pelosi for Bella Lugosi. We need a new Speaker of the House.

Don’t forget to remember when you vote in September, remember the country desired.

Let’s recycle Congress, so wasteful and ponderous, tell all the incumbents they’re fired.

They don’t listen to orders they won’t seal the borders, they’re supposed to work for us.

It’s just common sense let’s construct the damned fence, and put the illegals on a bus.

We need to keep all of our nukes and add more spooks and not be afraid to have balls.

Don’t listen to this crap that we’re stuck in some trap. The liberals are climbing the walls.

Tell them to go to hell, put them in a padded cell. Let’s get off of this radical agenda.

It’s time to say fare thee well to Rahm Emanuel. Drop a bomb on his hacienda.

Shysters and fat cats, Republicans and Democrats all of them are covering their asses.

They’re passing illegal dockets while lining their pockets and sticking it to the masses.

If you’ve had enough then it’s time to get tough. Bombard them with multiple faxes.

Send a brick in the mail, threaten them with jail, tell them to stop wasting our taxes.

Don’t be a dupe, join a tea party group, any place where your voice can be heard.

Be a midnight ghost. Call every talk show host and you tell’em the deficit’s absurd.

If you have a liberal to ravage, call Michael Savage. He likes to rip them to shreds.

He’ll strip ‘em down bare, and berate ‘em on air and bash some sense in their heads.

Bill O’Reilly and Hannity never use profanity but they have their talking points too.

If it’s so balanced and fair, then let the President be aware. Send him to Timbuktu.

Limbaugh has it right. Glen Beck’s a white knight. Use them to echo our voices.

Take the “Fairness Doctrine” and bury it in Stockton. Don’t try to limit our choices.

Give back General Motors, stop stealing from the voters, quit bowing down to kings.

Keep “Don’t ask, don’t tell”. Put a muzzle on Michelle. Stop pulling the banking strings.

I envision a dream where we end the regime and our ancestors can rest in their graves.

Obama will admit he’s a failure and quit and Americans can stop being his slaves.

“Political Correctness”

2010-02-12T08:26:00.000-08:00

Political Correctness has invaded our lives.

You cannot tell jokes reaping “high Fives”.

Everyone knows that the funniest of jokes,

Are ones that are told about ethnic folks.

You can’t tell jokes about unfortunate blacks.

You cannot tell jokes about fat people in slacks.

You cannot tell jokes about firemen, you see,

Some ethnics can’t tell between Hose A and Hose B.

You’re not allowed to tell jokes about Rabbis or Jews

Because the ACLU is looking for suitable clues.

You can’t tell jokes about Polacks that are dumb

Because the PC Police will label you a bum.

Morons were targets when jokes were like guns

Now they crucify your ass with nails in your buns.

You can’t tell jokes about dumb blondes anymore.

There will always be somebody to even the score.

You can’t even tell jokes about people who’re gay.

You cannot discriminate no matter which way.

Rednecks and lesbians are strictly out of bounds

And so are politicians, no matter how it sounds.

But ethnic jokes produce laughs so funny and great.

So here is the answer....Let me lay it out straight.

There is an ethnic group that is no longer around.

You can’t hurt their feelings. They cannot be found.

The Hittites were eradicated way back in BC.

They were completely wiped out before you and me.

Tell your funniest jokes about any nincompoop.

Simply substitute the Hittites for any ethnic group.

So, these two gay Hittites, walked into a bar.........

Sven and Olle....... Hardy Har Har..............

Three Envelopes

2010-02-04T20:08:00.000-08:00

On the day I was promoted I secretly gloated and reveled in my new found glee.
As the next new President I became the resident of a big office, belonging to me.

In a strange paradox while bringing in my box, I was cinfronted by my new x-boss. Trying not to stumble with wirds sounding humble, I grieved at his terrible loss.
You leave mighty shoes, but would you have any clues how I’d carry your dream?
So excited was I with an eye on his pie when he stupidly fell prey to my scheme.

“I’ve tried doing my best anticipating a request to leave you some meager advice.
If you’re ever on a ledge, it will give you an edge to avoid the political dice.”“You never got it from me.” as he handed the key locking the lower desk drawer.
“There are three envelopes addressing your hopes.” then quietly he left by the door.
I forged ahead in my zeal with a license to steal enjoying my new found wealth.
With power from a geyser none was the wiser, I’d obtained my position thru stealth.

Progressing thru the year, it became rather clear dissention was growing in the ranks.
Trouble kept brewing, employees were stewing and crosshairs appeared on my flanks. For hours I fretted and pondered and sweated, as the President I was paying my dues.
Beleaguered and pestered in my office sequestered and then I remembered my clues.

With a dim ray of hope, that first envelope emboldened me as the successor.
As I diligently read, the note simply said, “Blame everything on your predecessor.”

My problems so tragic evaporated by magic. Once more I was back up to speed.
As Commander in Chief free of my grief, I was running like a thoroughbred steed.
Then a harmless little joke became a whisper of smoke, the spark and kindling ignited.
In the frenzy that followed, I nearly got swallowed by sharks that were getting excited. Both Marketing and Sales were like killer whales. My enemies threw me in the pool.
In the melee that ensued, I was the food, but my mama didn’t raise any fool.
Later that night in subdued office light, I delved into that lower desk drawer.
The inscription so dear made perfectly clear the solution to even the score.
Ending my sorrow I couldn’t wait for tomorrow; it caused me to giggle and laugh.
For the message that I read went right to my head, “Fire subordinates and re-staff.”
Once more I was King with more power to sling; respected and feared by my peers.
I was totally on fire like a high voltage wire. I threw out those bums on their rears.
Along with my fame I gained national acclaim, magazines had my picture on cover.
As Things went along I could do nothing wrong, I even had more then one lover.
Just a bit later there appeared another crater, even bigger then the ones in the past.
It seems my fling with Sally touched off a rally, and momentum was building fast.
A dumb-assed broad with a body for a God was complaining because she got laid. Like a ghost that was haunted, the IRS undaunted alleged my taxes weren’t paid.
There was way too much scrutiny for a little mutiny but nothing I couldn’t handle. Simply ferret out the mole, a little damage control and a bribe to pay off a scandal.A little sex appeal helps out with any ordeal; I didn’t have a care in the world.
For the really big stuff, an ace in my cuff, a third envelope I had squirreled.

Now to vanquish my rival reclaim survival, the target of many riflescopes.
As I slid out my last clue…. it was over I knew… “Prepare three envelopes.”

The Smitty Welder - Glen's 60th

2009-08-20T17:00:00.000-07:00

We’re to honor a welder named Glen,
Who is badly in need of a friend.
Since none of us here are paying for beer
He’s broke with nothing to spend.

Since I’ve known this welder named Glen
He is constantly pecked by a hen.
The hen is his wife and she should use a knife
But he likes it so he never says when.

His embarrassing moments of the past
Have occurred while stoned or was gassed
As he sat on the pot, his head took a shot
When he nailed the sink with his mast
While performing an activity too lewd
He was cavorting and dancing ala nude
The wall heater burning gas blistered his ass
And ruined the mood of the dude.

Back in the old days of SDSU
Glen had a skill that was second to few
He fulfilled all his need as a farmer of weed
Not only that, but he made money too.

Now, young Stewart has long been a jock
And his exploits have put Glen in hock
The fridge needed defrosting, but what it was costing
So Stew ended up with a shock

He didn’t know if he killed him or not
But it was a lesson neither one forgot
When he shook Stew awake…”Did you feel the quake?”
That his dad was a shmuck he was taught.
I’m told he’s a bit of a kink
Wearing long johns that he’s washed colored pink
He’ll prance among his men, while avoiding Ben and Ken
But at least he smells sweet with no stink.
His most annoying habit is farting
His problem is stopping not starting
His friends all insist that he hums when he’s pissed
He’s most loved by his friends when departing

He supervises the fabrication shop
They make things from dawn till they drop.
Because pumping out oil is technical toil
Glen is much better with a mop.

Since welding has long been his gig
He always brags to the men on his rig
Though he still has a spark, he can’t wave his arc
And his girder is not very big.
He’s long lived his life above sod
And his kids say he’s older then God
When a welder can’t weld, every thing is hand held
He’s lost all the strength in his rod.
For many long years he’s been King
But he’s lost all his snap crackle ping
Because of these issues he sniffles in tissues
So, I’ve issued his balls in a sling.

With this birthday gift I’ll restore
Some testosterone to add to his bore
Whenever she pleases, Pam will give squeezes
And Glen will be as good as before.

“My Friend will pay!”

2009-01-12T17:33:00.000-08:00

To my friends that are dear and love to drink beer, I offer the gift of free brew.
Common among studs who enjoy their suds, is a phrase known by only a few.

It's an elegant ploy, that I pray you enjoy, but it's not for the timid or meek.
Master this phrase and for the rest of your days, its drinks on the house so to speak.

It sounds simple enough, nothing too tough; just exclaim “My friend will pay!”
But a quarrel on your hands if he understands for he knows he’s fallen your prey.

So, I’m not talking about here, or American Beer. I’m talking about beer far away.
It’s that foreign brew in the quest for the new, expensive when the tab is in play.
So let’s give this a try and see how it would fly at a Cantina in Mexico City.
As you order from the bar “Mi amigo pagará.” Point to your buddy named Smitty.
Next partake in a stein while cruising on the Rhine with plenty of tourists around.
To the beer meister exalt “Mein Freund zahlt”. There’s always a sucker to be found.
Brews by the French have an unpleasant stench, so bad they can’t even export them.
The reason they’re sold, foreigners aren’t told the French are trying to extort them.

If unlucky by chance you’re traveling thru France, avoiding the bill is the key.
None the less if you’re stuck don’t even waste a buck. “Mon ami va paye!”
While traveling to Manila, we stayed in a Villa and I found myself drinking with Rob.
In perfect Tagalog, I snookered my colleague “Ang kai-beegan ko ay mag ba ba yab.”

Hiding out in Rangoon, staying dry in a monsoon and traveling with a chick from Baja.
Too bad for Louisa, we maxed out her Visa. In Hindi it’s “Mara mitra aapsha!”

Cruising thru Thailand, on an off shore island, had the opportunity to practice our Thai.
We drank up our fill, while avoiding the bill, by announcing “Peun jai myuen hai !”

There’s a scarcity of yeast throughout Middle East, at least it’s illegal to employ it.
Raghead beer is regarded as being retarded. I’ve never met anyone who to enjoy it.

There’s no alcohol in Farsi protocol so there’s no reason to ever even go there.
Avoid excursions and drinking with Persians for Behnoush is made out of goat hair.

But, I met a few seals doing black-opp deals. They told me that they never had to pay.
If you’re ever in Iran or lost in Tehrân, call the waiter and say “Dostam polov miedeh!”
Asian beers are nice made of fermented rice; you may find yourself drunk in Shanghai.
If you don’t play the mandolin learn a little Mandarin, there’s certainly no reason to buy.

Call a round of Tsingtao and toast Chairman Mao you can do whatever you please.
Just keep your cools while you follow the rules, and bone up on a little Chinese.

Look for blue jeans or Sailors and Marines. Get friendly and then launch your coup.
Before they are gone pull the “Old Genghis Kahn” with a chorus of “Me’ ching k’u!”
As flags are unfurled anywhere in the world you can travel and partake to your fill.
Throw away your Visa. Order an anchovy pizza and drink some pretty good swill.
If we party together, we’ll be birds of a feather. We’ll drink till we’re both in a stew.
We’ll fall off our stools and babble like fools in a language that’s known as URDOO.

Billy Reed’s 40th

2009-01-08T20:16:00.000-08:00

Lemmie shout it out loud, let’s rally the crowd…It’s time to roast little Billy.
I like to gather the dirt and then make it hurt, and make the kid look silly.

It’s a standing tradition with a touch of sedition…and none of it has to be true.
A few outrageous acts, some falsified facts. It becomes what I wish to construe.
He needed a transfusion amid all the confusion a day or two after he was born.
Someone slipped our young stud a little bad blood and he started a life of scorn.

In kindergarten he excelled but his ass got expelled for being a scrappy fighter.
Thank God for his mother and his big ugly brother, if only he’d been a little brighter.

Billy had a double, he got in so much trouble. His old Man wore out two belts.
The family tradition, “Assume the Position”. Frank decorated his butt with welts

He went on a crusade, in about the first grade….figured out he knew how to pitch.
Instead of using his charm, he relied on his arm. His personality went right in the ditch.

At the age of thirteen there were girls on the scene. There was Tanya, Marian and Marla.
These vicious little girls dressed him up in curls, with pink rollers and polish like Darla.
Billy went along with the charade and he wasn’t afraid but his dad yelled “Billy let’s go!”
Like a confederate flag he was dressed up in drag and Frank was coming to the show.

To hear the story be told Billy wasn’t that bold. He couldn’t come out of the closet.
He got a hellava scare pulling curlers from his hair; he left Marla a sizeable deposit.

The experiment was engaging, his hormones were raging. He swore off girls for good.
After that disaster, his pitching actually got faster but clearly he was misunderstood.

When they needed some speed “Put in Billy Reed”. That’s what they said at Santana.
He made the “Hall of Fame”, plus the “Wall of Shame” something to do with a banana.
He barely made parole with his lack of control. Got caught and copped a miserable plea.
If your drunk and on stage, tryin’ to act your age. You’re stupid using Frankie’s ID.

If you want to talk silly, Frankie’s younger then Billy, but both of are older then Dad.
I don’t know when, but we’re doing Frank’s 40th again. Talk about somebody bad.

Billy’d be richer if he’d been a little better pitcher but the Padres just couldn’t maintain.
With Frank tryin’ to coach him no team would poach him. All Frank did was complain.

Then Billy threw a curve and Hildie didn’t swerve. She hit him clear out of the park.
She changed her career because he drank so much beer. He needed a cop after dark.

When Billy’s arm itches, he works on his pitches. He practices out back in the yard.
He’s got some fifth graders called the Santee Raiders. Some of them hit’m pretty hard.

While we mean him no shame, it’s the breaks of the game. You’re washed up at forty.
You’re a has-been thrower, your fast ball’s slower and girls don’t think you’re as sporty.

But I say you’re lucky as hell, your family is swell, you’ll never do hard time in jail.
Because when you’re married to a cop, if she says stop; you better suck in your tail.

Happy birthday Billy, you married a filly and although we know you’re a pain.
Though somewhat deprived, you surely survived. That’s why you’re getting “The Cane”

Hodads and Gonads

2008-11-29T16:40:00.000-08:00

To all of you surfers on balsa wood boards
Still shootin’ the curls stoned outta’ your gourds
I’m talking to you you’re the grizzliest of hoards
Lookin’ hung over like you fell on your swords.

You children of Neptune lend me your ears.
Put down your surfboards. Pick up your beers.
Grab your mermaid next to you. Abandon your fears.
Acknowledge Jimmy Gilchrist at age Sixty years.
It was back in the ice age when I first met Jim.
He was grubby and rugged, slender and slim,
From working long hours on the South Pole Rim.
He was on unemployment and his future looked dim.

It didn’t take long to spot a dead beat
Who was outta’ control and headed for the street.
Then along came Cinda to pull him to his feet
She beat up on Jimmy like a piece of raw meat.

She was just like a crusader with a long flowing cape.
When she grabbed our boy by the hairs on his nape.
She held on to her grip and he couldn’t escape.
She kicked and she scolded until he got into shape.

But getting back to those days when he worked on the ice
A place where lonely men fall prey to vice.
Young Jimmy did things that weren’t too nice.
He gambled his luck and rolled his dice.

Now, there ain’t no women named Sally or Carol
In spite of the dangerous sub-artic peril
Antarctic men sometimes go feral
Which can lead to problems and make them sterile.
Since there ain’t no flowers, there ain’t no bees.
Which only leaves those birds to please.
While penguin chaps will protect the knees,
Too many other things were left to freeze.
Not discounting all the skills he’s honed
Down in the land of ice where he once roamed
But all the penguins he once boned
Finally took their toll on the nubs he owned.
When Jim came home there were things that he knew
He was tired and cold and his balls were blue.
He wanted nothing to do with an all male crew.
The last thing that he wanted to do was screw.

After working six long seasons in sub zero cold
Jimmy’s price to pay can now be told.
You’ll never see a shot of his center fold,
For he hasn’t got much in his sack but mold.

Now he’s sixty years old and a real antique
But he’s still surfin’ the curls several times a week.
But if you notice his wet suit fits him way too sleek.
There ain’t no bulge where he takes a leak.

Now we know the reason why Cinda loves Scotch.
It’s because Jimmy’s got a botch in his crotch.
But you just sit back and hide and watch,
Because we’re cranking up their sex life just a notch.

Some may consider this trophy trash
Some may consider these measures rash
But it’s Jimmy’s ego that I get to bash
And Cinda’s desperate because she paid cash.
Now you’ll notice Cinda spared no expense
This enormous pair is just immense.
We found them hanging on a barbed wire fence
When an amorous bull had a lapse of sense.
Behold you see this ornamental plaque
With a well endowed magnificent sack.
It’s to help old Jimmy get back on track.
Knick knack paddy whack give your pack a smack.

We welcome Jimmy into the fold
Of fossilized geezers packin’ gold
With a brand new sex life ever bold
Happy sixtieth birthday Jimmy. You ain’t too old.

Poem Stranger

Bill Voyer, the Legend

2008-07-23T20:54:00.000-07:00

He was on the couch, in a kind of a slouch,
When I first laid eyes on Bill.
A grizzly looking guy with a glint in his eye
I could tell he was over the hill.

Too old for Nancy who was prone to be chancy
She was vivacious and alive.
Bill was leathered, his face was weathered,
Had to be at least fifty five.

Then swear to be damned he had a drop cord in hand.
There wasn’t any way to stop it.
The cord ran down the hall and was plugged into the wall.
His finger was shoved down the socket.

I thought it was dumb. He was having fun;
Sitting there totally loose.
He said "It’s no big deal, just slide down and feel
And tickle the button for juice."

We reached out and shook hands a pair of steel bands
They were rough and calloused with use.
I held a meaty paw it was strong and it was raw.
His knuckles were scarred from abuse.

One finger was chopped from a bell housing dropped
Another was clipped by a saw.
I threw away my impression and taught myself a lesson
He had a certain set in his jaw.

We talked for a while but that wasn’t his style.
He wasn’t the sort to be chatty.
The two girls were yakking with a little snacking
The scene was making him batty.

“Let’s go outside. Do you like to ride?
I want to show you a little surprise.”
Inside the garage, it was like a mirage.
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
A wonderful sight, to my delight
There were fourteen bikes in view.
A cavernous garage the size of a lodge,
And Bill was grinning on cue.

I tugged on his sleeve “That’s a sixty-six Greeves!”
“It’s still got the Springer front end.”
Then he laughed out loud. “Yeah, it’ll still draw a crowd.”
His delight was hard to pretend.

In a corner by the wall in a separate stall,
There was a Yamaha with 500 CC’s.
A notorious brute that could get up and scoot
But still had the grunt to pull trees.
A sidecar Harley looking totally gnarly;
Like being in a candy store.
I couldn’t get enough, such terrific stuff.
I wanted to see more and more.

And there under a tarp, like a magical harp,
Was a bike that gave me a thrill.
An original Cotton that time had forgotten,
It still had the old Villiers mill.
Then Bill explained all the trophies he’d gained
By racing that illegal ride.
The engine inside was highly modified
And I could tell that he said it with pride.

Then as he spoke about that vintage two-stroke
And how he raced in the two-fifty class.
“In rules for competing they confiscate for cheating,
But I needed more power to mass.”

“So I tore the bike down right to the bare groun’
And I worked every trick in the book.
I made my own parts to alter the charts
There was no way that they’d ever look.”

“I bored’n stuffed the crank; money in the bank.
I reduced the rotating mass.
That fulfilled my desire to make it rev higher,
Less lag when you wick on the gas.”

“My next little chore was to increase the bore,
So I had to fabricate a new barrel.
I worked round the clock on some sleeving stock,
And that tame two-fifty went feral.”

“From a six-fifty twin, the piston slid in
Now it was a three-twenty five.
I heli arced new fins to cover my sins
And suddenly racing came alive.”

For the next four seasons the fans had reasons
To stand for every single race.
Bill was always there by an eyelash or a hair,
In first or second place.

As I got to know Bill, I was awed by his skill.
On every machine he was the master.
We rode over the years up and down the gears
But he was always a little bit faster.

I rode an Elsinore and I had it full bore
Hauling ass on the pole line trail.
I was up on the pegs flexing my legs
But I knew he was right on my tail.

Then he came along side on his Big Horn Ride.
I was going as fast as I could.
He just kind’a waved high as he went on by
Like I was hauling a trailer of wood.

To my utter disgrace with the dust in my face
He totally lowered my rank.
He was still sitting down and clowning around
With his Grand daughter sitting on the tank.

Now I recall the best story of all
It involved his wife Nancy’s bike.
She wasn’t happy. The bike wasn’t snappy.
She told him she’d much rather hike.

That wasn’t so tragic. Bill could work his magic.
It would just take a little thought and toil.
He rolled it to the shop and took off the top
And tore the thing down to the oil.

Behind a locked door, every piece on the floor,
Bill whittled and fiddled and inspected.
With some tools he rented and some parts he invented
The Honda 90 became more then she expected.
To test out his lark he went to Saddle Back Park.
The place where everyone goes
To show up the hicks and to try out new tricks
And to be seen by anyone who knows.
Widow Maker Hill where more bikers spill
Is a magnet that always draws a crowd.
With more engines blown and more broken bone
But to concur that hill is to be proud.

It’s craggy and steep with ruts that are deep.
The last 10 feet are straight up and down.
And if that doesn’t stop ya, it’ll flat out drop ya
With a nasty ass lip at the crown.

Well, there was some guy tryin’ with long hair flyin’,
He had a Maico with a whole lot of power.
He was young and strong, but he was doing it wrong.
He’d been flogging that hill for an hour.
There was a huge big crowd and they cheered out loud
When the young lad cleared the top.
He was heaving on the bars and counting his stars
And he looked like a dirty old mop.

Bill was watching from the shade with his lemon aid
Amid the throng that was cheering in bliss.
Devilishly inspired Bill calmly inquired
“Do you think I could make her on this?”

There he was astride his wife’s sissy ride
A grizzly old man, sixty five.
“Well you might be brave, but that hill’s your grave,
There’s no way you’d climb it alive.”

“I’m not young and buff but it can’t be that tough.
I think I can climb it and not dump her.”
Then he heard one of them say “Sounds like a BSA.”
As he kicked over his miniature thumper.

Of course he knew the trail like it was etched in Braille,
He was definitely no stranger to the hill.
His method was sound. Get the power to the ground
With technique and balance and skill.

As he rolled on the gas, he made it in one pass
With nary a sputter or a cough.
When he came along side, that 19 year old cried
“Now wouldn’t that just piss you off?”

We laugh about Bill. He never went over the hill.
Somehow he just stayed on top.
God’s call heeded, a better mechanic was needed.
He and Moses are now talking shop.
Moses boasting with pride. Bill souped up his ride.
Then he shows God his pink slip and title.
“I’m the first one started. Then I’m the Dearly Departed!
I’ve even got my own Golden Idle.”

When I think of my friend where the trails never end,
He’s riding for a whole different cause.
He can never get hurt if he falls in the dirt
And Heaven doesn’t have helmet laws.

Island Beer Club

2007-12-17T16:49:00.000-08:00

A subject quite dear, is the drinking of beer.
That we love it, there can be no doubt.
From the robust ails brewed in faraway Wales,
To a keg of the best Guinness stout.

Sometimes there’s confusion, there’s such profusion.
So many beers that need to be tested.
A beer that’s not tasted is a beer that is wasted,
Just look at the money we’ve invested.

With an eye on our health, and the preservation of wealth,
We avoid all legal enforcement.
While that part is sportin’, we rely upon Morton
To provide us our medical endorsement.

There are no surprises, we come in all sizes.
Some of us are robust and sound.
We could all be in tatters and none of it matters
As long as we all share a round.

We assemble each week to gather and speak
On the merits of various brewing.
Since we’re past our prime, in the interests of time,
We’ve abandoned the topic of screwing.

The rotation of crops, varieties of hops
It’s a matter of degrees and discernment.
For as long as there’s brew, we’ll never be through
What reason is there for adjournment?

Muncy likes San Miguels; I cherish the Pil’s.
That makes our opinions are divided.
I don’t think he cares beans for the beer of Philippines
But it’s the only beer they provided.

“Oly” hauls barley on the back of his Harley
Strapping a keg to the rear.
You may think he’s crazy, but really he’s lazy
He’s always in reach of his beer.

“Barley is fine, but wheat beer is divine!”
Poses Howard opposing the heat.
In defense of his thesis, carving critics to pieces,
“Rome conquered the world using wheat.”

On he would prattle about Romans in battle,
“They laughed when stabbed with a spear.
Fighting with a slur and drunk though they were,
They died with a belly full of beer.”

Gimmie a frosty mug and a beer to chug;
Hell, pour it in a used paper cup.
I like a lotta head on my hydraulic bread
Don’t force me to ever give it up.

Never late bloomers; we’re ahead of the boomers
Everyone else is left far behind.
It’s perfectly clear; throw in a little beer
With alcohol and friendship combined.

Visit www.islandbeerclub.com

Nasopharyngeal Carcinoma

2007-10-25T18:00:00.000-07:00

Dear friends and family. Cousin John has been diagnosed with Nasopharyngeal Carcinoma. He is currently going through the the battle of his lifetime. To bolster his mental attitude, I composed the following Mantras and phrases in the hope of providing a combination of mental toughness, humor and positive mental imagery in the only way that I know how. He appreciates all your thoughts and prayers and thanks you all for your love and support. Follow his progress at www.caringbridge.org/visit/johnjames

“Squash The Tumor Mantras”

2007-10-25T17:30:00.000-07:00

I’m Strong and I’m tough, I look good in the buff.
I’ll fight for a hundred rounds.
I’m going to squash this thug like a puny bug
As crazy as you think it sounds.

My powers are God’s. I’ll defy the odds.
I have a purpose to live.
I have the power, to dissolve and devour,
Whatever my enemy can give.

You say it’s a tumor. I say it’s a rumor.
I visualize it melting away.
In my mind I discern, no need for concern.
My enemy shall cower at bay.

As my tumor is shrinking, don't begin thinking
That other things get smaller as well.
It's nothing but drivel, that my testicles will shrivel.
In fact, they're beginning to swell.

A little strychnine, some "Love Potion Number Nine"
And throw in a mad scientist or two;
Then boil it in beakers like some crazy tweakers
And call it a lifesaving brew.

If they mix in some Cialis and a cheerleader from Dallas
I think we could market this stuff.
A little rough there at first, but you develop a thirst,
The problem is making enough.

I have faith alongside, love far and wide,
And millions of prayers being said.
I see strength in the mirror, my purpose is clearer
My troubles are all in my head.

I’ll go into battle with a spear and a saddle
And I’ll find me a stallion to ride.
Since I’m forty pounds lighter I can hang on tighter
I’m meaner then Jekyll and Hyde.

I’ll be Sir Lancelot and William Wallace The Scot.
I’m all rolled up into one.
When I raise my kilt, it’ll see how big I’m built,
And then I’ll show my Bum.

I’ll smite that foe with blow after blow,
Until there’s nary a cell.
My mental Marines, make smithereens,
And burn the dust in hell.

I’ll call a convention of Divine intervention
I’m the greatest super hero invented.
With my super good looks, and my old comic books
And a costume that has to be rented.

The Poem Stranger

The Trial of Terry Bibbens

2007-08-07T19:54:00.000-07:00

Now all of you freeloaders guzzling on beers,
You worthless peddlers and black marketeers.

I’m talking to you, you’re the motliest crew,
Ever assembled together, sucking your brew.

The Vigilante from Dallas, better known as "The Pig",
Is leading the way to spearhead this gig.

Uncle Drunkie’s excused from pushing this cause,
He’s got his own problems from bending the laws.

Michael O’Brian, he has his own plight,
Removing the crust from T.J. last night.

And Brian McCarthy is of no use to us.
He’s wrapped up in his slicker, in the back of the bus.

But none holds a candle nor is nearly as bold,
As that bandit named Bibbens, who’s locked in the hold.

We’re talkin’ despicable, dilapidated and grey,
A man who makes rattlesnakes cower at bay.

You all saw the posse that dragged him in here.
We just bribed his friends with a six-pack of beer.

Now in the slammer, he’ll be there for a while,
For this is the day of his overdue trial.

Assembling a jury of twelve of his peers,
Is the most frightening of thoughts, the worst of his fears.

He knows he’s washed up as an executive ace,
We’ve got him in jail, let’s prosecute his case.

This villain is charged with heinous crimes.
We’re talkin’ big stuff, not nickels and dimes.

You are charged Mr Bibbens, with meetings too long,
That wander away, without meaning or song.

With agendas so frail, they just vanish away,
Like the air conditioning in the heat of the day.

Do I find twelve men who attest this as true?
You’re guilty as charged, but we ain’t quite through.

He knew that "Killer" hadn’t thought of it yet,
So he lowered commissions, and screwed the Rep.

He trimmed to the quick, without giving a chance,
And put "Killer" on the stage with a song and a dance.

Gimmie twelve good men who’ll shout their affirm.
"He’s guilty by God, and he’s gonna burn!"

You Scoundrel, you’ll pay, you’ll rot there in jail.
We won’t let you out till you’re feeble and frail.

There’s more, There’s more! Up the pay for the poor.
Not only the groceries, we want the whole store.

We want territories expanded with unlimited range,
And expenses unquestioned, don’t give us small change.

To each salesman a helper, she’ll be sweet and purdy’
More like Raquel, and not Gravel Gertie.

We want profits up front of all our demands.
The course of this company is out of your hands.

And you’d better comply with all of these rules,

Or the next things we’ll take are the family jewels.

After this trial, you’re out on parole,
But remember Mr. Bibbens, you’re not in control.

David And Jennie Wedding Troast

2007-05-29T10:58:00.000-07:00

Dearest family and friends, there’s a means to the ends.
We’re celebrating! David’s a groom!
You really gotta admit, it’s a damned funny bit,
Because we’re gaining an extra room.

David’s had it coming, for years he’s been running.
If he could have, he’d have gone to Vermont
Without being abrasive he was simply evasive.
It’s what he calls hard to want.

He’d wear lotions to repel and hide behind his shell,
Didn’t want anything to do with chicks.
The enigma, the mystery; one slip and you’re history,
It was all in his bag of tricks.

He’d wear shorts and Doc Martins, drink milk from the cartons.
His tee shirts had unsocial phrases.
While his Mother disowned him, we both had to condone him,
We were praying it was one of his phases.

We were some Christian couple, gentle and supple
Where he happened to have a room.
“I can’t take you home. Don’t ever call my phone.
So get lost, but I like your perfume.”

There’s no if's ands or buts, He was driving us nuts
For years we thrusted and parried.
"Have you found a girl yet? Why haven’t we met?
When are you gonna get married?"

Tried not to lecture him, Didn’t want to pester him
But this kid had no place to hide.
That’s when Jenny beat him at pool, took him like a fool,
And put a big hole in his pride.

He was completely unprepared when that brilliant red haired
Gal showed up on the scene.
She could handle her beer and she had her own career.
David had found him a queen.

Once he dropped his defenses and came to his senses
He showed how much he could care.
In spite of his flaws, Jennie rallied to the cause
And caught him like a hare in a snare.

At least they had style. We didn’t see’ m for a while,
All the details were discretely omitted.
Then came the admission. " We have a new addition."
And immediately David was committed.

Though somewhat showy, we’re talking about Zoey
Just look at the commotion she started.
But have ye no fear, simply give her a year
To teach Daddy about waters uncharted.
Of course secretly elated, we kept silent and waited.
We wanted to know where this was heading.
After so much debating and waiting and waiting
To hell with it, I’ll do the wedding.

So, in spite of the fray, it’s been a great special day
You’re invited to toast with your glasses
To a long happy marriage, a worn out baby carriage,
Let’s increase the arterial blood gasses.

"To David and Jennie, may their blessings be many,
And their love be hopelessly entwined.
May their future unfold, with fortune and gold
And troubles be left far behind."

The Wallace Wedding Troast

2007-05-28T21:23:00.000-07:00

As most nuptials go, this one’s been slow, For the groom has been most evasive.
She loved him, wooed him, patiently pursued him,
Genny failed to be quickly persuasive.

Those cupid abuses and stupid excuses,
Have kept this marriage waiting at bay.
As family we love them, God help us above them. How long we’ve awaited today!

At first they weren’t ready. They were just going steady.

Marriage wasn’t given a thought.
Not at least by ol’ Matt, he was fat like a cat,

But Genny was hatching a plot.

Deceptively cloy, but merely a ploy,

Genny set her goals to a plan.
He was an innocent hair caught in her snare,

As Genny lassoed her man.

But it was a long rope, which gave Matthew hope.

He knew he could win with his brains.
Genny played with his head, like a whale on a thread

And gently kept hold of the reins.

When ever he’d breach, Genny worked on the beach

Spooling out miles of her yarn.
As he’d come swimming back, she’d reel in the slack,

Bringing him right to the barn.

"You look a bit harried. We ought to get married."

Matthew would sweat in his juice.
He’d evaporate like a Cheshire, cave under pressure,

And escape with another excuse.

"What do you say Sweety, that we head for Tahiti.

We need a vacation and fun."
Swept under the rug, with a kiss and a hug

In exchange for some time on the run.

But all of us knew, he was stuck in the glue,

And the mill grinds exceedingly fine.
For Genny relentless, and not to be "gentless",

Held an infinitely long length of line.

Gently she’d nudge him, she still couldn’t budge him,
Something so slippery about him.
I thought sooner or later, she’ll call up the caterer ‘n Have the damn wedding without him.

I’ve heard of long engagements, but these arrangements

Were frozen in the ages of time.
It took her eight long years to conquer his fears,

And haul in the slack in his line.

Like a calculous lesson, or congress in session,

Some things can take quite a while.
Now that he’s admitted, he’s firmly committed,

Matt’s a man who prolongs it in style.

As these two have been wedded on this day that’s been dreaded

By all of here in this room,
We’ve bet and lost wages and waited for ages,

Let us toast to the bride and the groom.

A Fabel of Success

2007-05-27T12:42:00.000-07:00

A camel safari
And a bright red Ferrari
Were parked on the road to success.
The car door was open,
The salesman hopin’,
I’d honor his pitch with a yes.

But the camels were braying,
Their owners praying,
I’d hire their service instead.
Sounding like parrots,
proclaiming their merits,
Playing to the thoughts in my head.

Not being subtle, each had the rebuttal,
For whatever the other would say.
Extremely persuasive, clever and evasive,
Like many salesmen today.

One had great speed, and would surely succeed,
Given the favored terrain.
But a smelly old camel, is a sure-footed mammal,
And excels in a shortage of rain.

As long as there’s fuel, Testarossas rule,
But caravans carry their own supplies.
One must ponder the road out yonder,
And the nature of the journey that lies.

Aesop's famous fables, would turn the tables,
And often end in surprise.
The tortoise and the hare, an unlikely pair,
Once raced to the rabbit’s demise.

The Ferrari was acquired by a man inspired,
By the glitter, the gleam and the glow.
The caravan consigned to a man resigned,
To a journey that was tedious and slow.

The Ferrari got started and soon departed,
Speeding off in search of its goal.
The camel was prodded and slowly it plodded,
In a much more conservative role.

Both covered the miles in their separate styles,
Each knowing the other had lost.
In their pursuits with their ties and their suits,
Gambling whatever the costs.

Many signs were ignored, routes were explored,
But the journey was over too soon.
When the road less traveled, suddenly unraveled,
The Ferrari ended up in a dune.

As the roadway dwindled, he swore he’d been swindled,
Yelling at the top of his voice.
“They said I wouldn’t be slowed because of the road.”
Blaming everyone else for his choice.

Meanwhile, the uneven lands and the burning sands,
Supported the trek of the beast.
The long caravan, and one lonely man,
Reluctantly heading to the East.

Every day was the same, with barren terrain,
With nothing to change the view.
Except a derelict car, like a wounded scar,
That once was shiny and new.

As the going was slow and supplies getting low,
The caravan was stopped by the sea.
Stranded on the shore, the land was no more.
Success was not to be.

Both journeys dead-ended, their captains offended,
Through nobodies fault but their own.
For every farmer agrees, you reap from the trees,
Of the seeds that you’ve actually sown.

So what is concluded when success is eluded?
Is there no way to insure a clear bet?
When traveling to there, it is better by air.
The best way would be the Lear jet.

THE BURMA ROAD

2007-05-26T21:48:00.000-07:00

Driving past your vacation lot, with your trailer on a beach front plot,
I just consider you as a "Johnny come lately".
To me, your house is new, and although I admit, I don’t know you,
I regard your home, as less then stately.

I don’t presume I’m better then you, it’s just that I hate, anything new.
I wish I could keep it, like it always was.
Until I know you, I’ll pretend, that you’ve always been there as a friend.
But I must admit, I resent you, just because.

Trees are tall, roots are deep, as progress crawls, true hearts weep.
Some things were meant to be, just like they were.
If you’ve ever watched a sapling grow, year to year, seems so slow.
No lumber Jack is happy, as he cuts a Douglas Fir.

You can label me as temperamental, actually, I’m really sentimental,
I just remember how it was, before you came along.
Way back in nineteen forty eight, you didn’t even need no bait.
There weren’t no license needed, fishing wasn’t wrong.
You’d get salmon eggs at Wings, maybe a coke and some other things,
And still spend less then a quarter of a dollar.
Wing’s dog could open a door. Francis, the Post Master, ran the store.
We’d fish the creek ‘til we heard Grampa holler.
My Grand Dad always liked to stop, and because of loyalty, he’d shop.
Just that simple gesture taught me much.
You must support those friends you love, even if the cost’s above,
A stranger may be cheaper, but lacks a loving touch.

The black top ended at Dry Creek, but since we needed to take a leak,
Many’s a time we’d let her whizz.
When the water was running deep, it was much too wide to leap.
Ol’ Harvey would claim that creek as his.

So, we called it Rendsland’s knowing, there was usually water flowing.
That meant the map was mostly wrong.
The county maps said other wise, and most folks just had to realize
If you needed a map, you didn’t belong.

Them rich doctors was always lost, "How much would this land cost?
I hear this Rendsland wants to sell".
If you knew Harv, you’d understand, he didn’t put on like he was grand,
He just told’m all, to go to Hell.

That’s where Harvey built his abode, at the end of The North Shore Road.
He called his driveway Timber Lane.
Harvey and Grand Dad had a special bond, our house was clear on beyond
By way of a private road we’d gain.

You couldn’t get nowhere from there, and it caused some folks to swear
They wanted a road to keep on going.
But, Harvey owned most of the land, so he always held the upper hand,
With just a couple of the aces showing.

The county politickers kept insisting and Harvey Rendsland kept resisting,
Ain’t no road unless Harvey said it so.
You see Harvey had a scheme of sorts, and he had the county by the shorts.
Them boys was gonna pay some dough.

You’d a loved to have been a mouse, in the rafters of the old court house,
When Harvey finally cut his deal.
"You’re gonna pay me to build the road, and pay me for every timber load,
And pay me for my land you steal."

I’ll never forget that fateful day as Harvey decided it was time to play.
He had a "D-9" Cat with a six foot blade.
I climbed up in a Dog Wood tree, so’s I had a place to watch and see,
And I even brought my Gran’ Dad’s spade.

Of course Harvey spotted me wavin’ my shirt, as he started pushing all that dirt,
And I knew he could use another man.
So he set me up on that tractor seat, for a seven year old it’s a special treat,
And a great way to also get a tan.

We smelled like sweat, tobacco and leather, When Harvey hollered "Yank that lever!"
That cat would head for another pine.
And all that summer we dozed them rocks. While Gand Ma washed my dirty sox,
I rode on the seat of that big D-9.

We’d push’m down in big ol’ clumps, then lite the fuse to blow the stumps.
Harvey’d walk back real slow.
I’d hunker down behind the blade and wait for the blast from dynamite laid
Hold my breath until she’d blow.

So as you show up on a Sunday noon, thinking you got here none too soon,
Because that traffic had you slowed.
Just thank your lucky stars you’re late, you wouldn’t got here in ‘forty eight.
I helped Harvey build the Burma Road.
The Burma Road, Hood Canal.

Who was Lee'Nardo anyway?

2007-05-19T15:13:00.000-07:00

Eons ago in high school physics class, Lee Jorgensen sat next to me. He had an extraordinary ability to draw pictures and cartoons that showed the true genius of his artistic talent. I nick named him Lee'Nardo De Guinchy and the rest is history. Maybe he'll return in a sequel someday, but where he is today is a mystery. Although, I can't help thinking he's got to be close by because I always see his drawings and art work all over town.

Lee'Nardo De Ginchy

2007-05-19T14:26:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you a tale about a guy that I knew
But damned if I can tell you where this fellow blew.

Let me tell you the tale, you can see for yourself,
Man this guy made his hat like a fugitive elf.

Now, he went by the name of the “Almighty Lee”.
And he could draw anything that you wanted to see.

Anything he would paint, for money or beer
On the side of a car or a wall that was near.

Now, the last time I saw Lee, I was over at his pad.
We were stacking the cans from the binge we'd had.

We had them stacked up in a huge beeramid,
And Lee’Nardo painted scenes on every lid.

Charlie Brown strolled in and laid down the line,
“Paint flames on my bathtub and do it on time.”

“Hold off man, this job ain’t for free
Two gallons of wine is the price of the fee.”

"Crazy dude, like what could be neater,
With flames on the tub, I ‘liminate the heater."

A couple of days later, Charlie’s house burnt down,
Some of the cats came over, and they all drew around.

One of them said “Lee, you’re the greatest by far,
So paint us a nude on the side of my car.”

Another one said as he drooled with saliva,
“Zeke Wolf and Brear Bear chasing Lady Godiva.”

“Slow down Daddy, Lay some cash in my hand
Two skins in my palm is the fee I demand.”

Several moments later as they pulled out of the way,
The long arm of the law made its dastardly play.

They took one look at Zeke Wolf and Brear Bear,
And put cloths on Godiva and cut off her long hair.

Then the cops got on Lee and you know what that means,
They made him stop painting them swinging scenes.

The judge said, “Lee, I’m gonna fine you a Lot!”
But Lee said “You cant fine me for what I ain’t got.”

“Then there’s only one other way to pay off the price,
You’re gonna pin stripe my pulpit, so do it up nice.”

The state warden saw the job and he liked it so well,
“Lets make Lee’Nardo do the death row cell.”

So, they put Lee to work draggin the chain and the ball
And they put him to work on the death cell wall.

Fairies and cupids were the theme of the place,
With little pink clouds all covered in lace.

Lee soon graduated to the electric chair room
Where devils with pitch forks danced in the gloom.

The chair in the center was all painted in flame
And lightning bolts pointed to the victim in blame.

The warden came in to see Lee’s latest work,
He flipped his lid and about went berserk.

In the back of his cell just playin’ it cool,
Was Lee’Nardo paintin’ scenes on the Toilet stool.

But the thing that fried the warden’s soul
Was his perfect portrait inside of the bowl.

And clenched in his teeth like a big bomber joint
Was a gigantic turd that came to a point.

And off by the way Lee was laughing with joy
That was the last ever seen of that pin striping boy.

The Bachelor's Curse

2007-05-17T22:25:00.000-07:00

The curse of a woman, quite unruly.
Since the spell my nights pass bluely,
Completely filled with night mares truly,
As Cupid smiles upon me cruelly.

His poisoned arrow went astray,
To hazard the path of a bachelors way.
When the sandman grins with tooth decay,
My carefree pillars begin to sway.

His leering laughter, he was busting,
Sprinkling sand and magic dusting.
My golden bachelor chains are rusting,
To end those nights of liberal lusting.

As nightfall swoops, I fear the team,
That spends the day to spring a scheme.
They hatch a hideous horrendous dream,
Pestering me with gleeful scream.

A lengthy list of torture teachers,
All my childhood nursery creatures,
Learning lines to star the features,
Taunting me with thoughts of preachers.

Jack Frost appeared in ice clad boot,
And a Hong Kong tailored sermon suit.
"Your life is one with out a root,
And a single tree bears withered fruit."

Up above my head so round,
A stork of white whom mocking frowned,
Brought prophesies of doleful sound,
To show me I was sinful bound.

"No restful sleep for you" he said,
"Persist you lead the life you've led.
I'll spring a babe from every bed,
Lest you decide it best to wed."

And each in turn with barb and thorn,
Would follow suit to laugh and warn.
The way was paved for Barley Corn,
As he entered midst their joyful scorn.

Crawling from some darkened hole,
With blood shot eyes of molten coal,
The giver of back door parole,
Looked down upon my wretched soul.

Liquor fumes of foul disguise,
Did well to hide his liquid lies.
"A brideless life is very wise.
A drinking man should have no ties."

“CHA-CHING!”

2007-05-17T22:21:00.000-07:00

Standing on the bow of the now, “Cha-Ching!”
I’m wondering how did David afford this thing?

Was there a millionaire there in the Anza Borrego,
Who went camping with his friends from San Diego?

Was he really a genius with his trusty old pliers,
When his dune buggy traveled on worn out tires?

Did you think he was just an adventuress buffoon,
When he shoveled his truck to Scammon’s Lagoon?

Is it a weed or a daisy? Is he eccentric or just crazy?
Was the trail well defined, or was the route kind’a hazy?

When he used to drink beer from a jar with a sock,
Did you think, someday he’d have a boat by the dock?

If the thought had surfaced back when you thunk it.
If David ever gets a boat, by now he’d have sunk it.

Did he build a skyscraper out of nothing but straw?
Was it pure magic genius, or the luck of the draw?

Well, it just goes to show you, you can’t out guess fate.
You can’t judge a man by what you see on his plate.

When you’re traveling the trail, you can’t see the end.
For in David’s case we know, he went around the bend.

But with much admiration, to the Captain and King,
I now christen this boat with the name “CHA-CHING!”
Poem Stranger

In Loving Memory

2007-05-17T22:00:00.000-07:00

In every family, the process of grief seems to develop it's own unique culture, style, and tradition. Some families view the passing of a loved one as a time to deeply mourn and express sadness and despair in a highly emotional and tearful event. When this occurs, the event is emotionally lopsided, and people attend because of a sense of family obligation, but no one leaves with any sense of fulfilment or uplifted spirit. By my way of thinking, the emotional spectrum needs to range from anger, tears, sadness, happiness, and most important, joyful laughter. To me, it's much the same as a black and white photograph. It has to reflect all eleven shades of grey. A good wake or memorial event must have the quality of a deep saturated black to represent the profound grief and sadness that's ever present in the passing of a loved one. Next, various lighter shades, representing the better qualities of a life well spent IE: achievements, influential events, lives impacted, etc. And finally, the peak highlights. In a photo, it's the pure white sun reflecting from a chrome bumper, or white caps in the frothy ocean spray. At a wake, it's the laughter in remembering the very best memories, characteristics and bloopers of the dearly departed. In all of my "Odes" to the dearly departed, I've attempted to verbally render all eleven shades of grey.

P.S. Regarding "Cookmanship in a Hotel Room"

Shortly following the posting of "Ode To Marcy" the above mentioned article written by Marcy was discovered among her affects. It serves to embellish upon the stanzas in her Ode dealing with her infamous cookbook. Although it is not part of The Poem Stranger's original Odes Roasts and Troasts it is included in this space as Marcy would have wanted, where family and friends will be able to find it. It is her work, not mine. Having read it, though she purports it to be true, I tend to believe that like her original cookbook; this too is fiction......Poem Stranger

ODE TO MARCY

2007-05-17T20:00:00.000-07:00

The body may parish, but it’s memories we’ll cherish.
I’m here to relate just a few.
She knew you all one and all, but if you will recall,
I knew her longer then you.

She was known to have gin with friend, Errol Flynn,
Then she was young and precocious.
But as she got older, her antics got bolder
And some relatives found her atrocious.

Her father for starters, military starch and garters.
Marcy just needed some breeding
So true to his guns he shipped her off to the nuns,
To the convent for manners and reading.

What our mother learned, got her fingers burned.
She discovered a keg of black powder.
If the nuns were crabby with a trail around the abbey,
The flash made them yell even louder.

Marcy’s memorandum? She was selected at random.
Prosecuted without a trial.
But punishment for the vandal avoided a scandal,
Scrubbing that scorch for a mile.

That tedious session taught her a lesson.
She learned it way back then.
Hard work and success, is akin to duress.
She never used Ajax again.

To my knowledge, she never went to college,
But street smarts she had to excel.
It often was spoken, when the family was joke’n
We knew Mother was prone to rebel.

Like Queen Victoria, at the Waldorf Astoria
Mom entered in a silken gown.
It fit nice and tight, but for sleeping at night.
Naturally, the talk of the town.

Instead of going to Nebraska, she headed for Alaska
With a knack for creative writing
As the “Roving Reporter” she had many a supporter.
Her cookbook was the most inciting.

For the palette to please, there were many recipes
Collected from men of the woods.
But the collection ran short, so just to be a sport
She invented the rest of the goods.

Wild haunch ala' moose, pickled roast goose,
Sour dough puddin' n' bear rib stew.
For the hungry fellow there was salmon Jell-O,
Just to name a few.

Since I was inspired, I naturally inquired,
“How good did your recipes taste?”
Oh, I wouldn’t know my son, I just wrote them for fun.
I’ve no time for cooking to waste.

The library of Congress so wasteful and ponderous,
Actually published her book.
Like the rarest coin minted, only one copy was printed
And it’s lost in some dark dusty nook.

Alas and alack, it’s buried way deep in some stack
In a place where no one will look.
Thousands might have died if her recipes had been tried
If Mom had taught them to cook

As some of you guessed, with fathers I’m blessed,
Starting with my natural dad.
And I’m happy they met, cuz you can just bet
If they hadn’t, I’d have been had.

Next, there was Bob, and they conceived brother Rob,
There after they drifted apart.
Heard about him now and then, but never saw him again,
But he gave me a pretty good start.

Then, Mom married Ken, a good man among men
That gave us Skip and sis Bea.
It wasn’t my choosing, our family’s confusing
Its one hell of a family tree.
The branches abound, and go back into the ground.
I’ve got brothers that have never met.
You might think it’s sad, but everyone’s glad,
Staying in touch would have put them in debt.

Marriage number four was a Scot’s man of yore
Ian taught me to love scotch.
They were married for a while but kilts weren’t in style.
Mom carved another new notch.

The last in the session really taught her a lesson
Cuz this guy would never let go.
Marriage for Mom was a hobby, but not for old Bobby,
He stayed for the whole damn show

Through laughter and tears over thirty five years.
Pretty good for a past that was checkered.
To her last dying day, she’d have it no other way.
She certainly set a new family record .

Mom’s life was so ordinary, yet in many ways extraordinary.
Each man in her life was to mold me.
Love and fondness in my heart, each man had a part,
In most cases, it was something they told me.

With a new journey beginning, you know, she has to be grinning.
St. Peter has to clean up her mess.
Since now they’re all dead, to whom is she wed?
Of all of my Dads, it’s any ones guess.

There’s little need to mention, she’ll be the center of attention.
Just as they’re letting her through.
Before her last choice, she’ll hear Peter’s voice,
“Ohhh Marcy, you got some ‘splaining to dooo!”

Poem Stranger

COOKMANSHIP IN A HOTEL ROOM

2007-05-17T19:00:00.000-07:00

Marcy James Reinhart
180 Buckingham, #338
Redwood City, Ca. 94061

COOKMANSHIP IN A HOTEL ROOM has practically nothing to do with sportsmanship, because most of the hotel managers who have caught me have been pretty poor sports! Consequently, by trial and error, I have evolved a nearly foolproof formula designed to outwit the obdurate innkeeper.
Following a few basic rules, anyone can "whip up" little gourmet meals that will delight their husband, help defray expenses and satisfy their own fundamental need for adventure. If you don't follow the rules it is, indeed, "living dangerously". Much akin to going over Niagara Falls in a barrel, only not quite as lonesome.
The first thing to remember in this "cloak and cookery" business is: KEEP IT SIMPLE. Electric toasters, grills, waffle irons are absolutely "verboten", as are hibachis, charcoal grills and the like. Practically no hotel objects to an electric coffee pot. That is not considered cooking; it's brewing. So, if you have one, fine! Artfully displayed on the bureau or nightstand with a two-pound box of sugar and a jar of Cremora it is an effective camouflage for the rest of the "gear" that you have no intention of displaying!
A single electric plate (a double is usually too bulky to conceal), a single electric warmer, an extension cord, and you’re practically all set. A two quart saucepan, a small frying pan (doubles as a cover) and a four quart saucepan (I prefer Teflon as it’s easier to clean and doesn’t stick) and now, with a bit of judicious juggling, you’re ready to turn out epicurean delights. Well, almost!
My kitchen-on-the-go-go is a large, round hatbox (of the garden variety hats) that I found in a second hand store. If you're not fortunate enough to run across something similar, any reasonably sturdy suitcase will do nicely.
To the foregoing assortment of pots and hot plates I've added four pretty (unbreakable) plates, bowls and cups as well as a couple of covered Tupperware type nested bowls and one heavy china plate (surveyed from a U.S. Navy mess) which doubles as a lid, a platter or large ash tray. Along with the necessary eating implements, you need a long-handled fork, a good paring knife, good butcher knife, and a small breadboard. Last, but most important, a large can of LYSOL (room deodorant) spray...because, Sweetie, most room fresheners smell like pine needles, lilacs or some such; and if you're frying onions, the room or the hall outside is likely to have an unmistakably guilty odor. Lysol works. (At this point, I might add, that nothing, but nothing covers the smell of boiling cabbage - so if he gets a yen for a New England boiled dinner - make him take you out to supper.)
Assuming that you have assembled the necessary tools to embark on "Operation Mata Hari with the skillet", let me point out some of the more obvious pitfalls, namely: garbage, shopping, storage, leftovers and noise.

GARBAGE: Well, garbage is garbage no matter how you package it these days. I suggest wrapping it in newspaper, placing it in a paper bag and cunningly depositing it in a trash receptacle somewhat further away than the one serving your hall. This tends to confuse the janitor who can tell the difference between eggshells and beer cans.

SHOPPING: Shopping, per se, is no problem if you've money. The trick is getting it past the desk clerk. All desk clerks and managers of hotels that forbid cooking in the rooms are notoriously suspicious of brown paper bags. Apoplexy and bloodhounds set in when brown paper bags are adorned with "Safeway", "A & P", or just plain "George's Market". That one could be so stupid is hard to believe, but some people have been known to be blithely unconscious after three martinis. If you must resort to the brown paper bag route...make it the plain liquor store variety and make sure that the neck of a bottle is sticking out, with all the grocery goodies on the bottom. As you pass the desk or pick up your key, rattle the bottle suggestively, grin gleefully and say, "PARTY"! Heaven knows they don't object to booze. However, the recommended method is a small suitcase or makeup kit (a Gladstone bag is perfect!). Out you go with the empty case and back you come with the bacon. Literally, if you wish.

STORAGE: Shopping and storage go hand-in-hand, so while it may be a bit of a chore to shop nearly everyday, it's wise not to lay in too much of a stock. Storage is not too much of a problem. One of your own unpacked suitcases will act as a pantry and a rubber-lined beach bag hanging on a hook at the back of the closet does beautifully for such perishables as you have on hand. Management does NOT snoop in guests' luggage, particularly if it's locked! Buy butter or margarine one or two cubes at a time, put in covered Tupperware-type bowl and put in beach bag.

LEFTOVERS: Leftovers are a problem unless you have a dog, which is highly unlikely in this type of hostlery. It is best to try and prepare only what you can use at any one meal. Otherwise, ditto with a covered bowl, screw top jar or other covered container. NOISE: Not exactly a problem unless the walls are paper-thin. In such cases a transistor radio is handy to drown out the sizzle-crackle of frying bacon or whatever. Also, the inadvertent banging of dishes or pans during K.P.
By this time you have the general outline for do's and don'ts in the game of COOKMANSHIP. With reasonable intelligence, a bit of improvisation and common sense you should be able to adapt the overall idea to suit your particular situation or environment.

HAPPY PAN HANDLING!

Bob's Ode

2007-05-17T18:54:00.000-07:00

It seems to me that the powers that be,
Would have me speak of praise,
To convince you all through a crystal ball,
That Bob’s in heaven’s gaze.

I prefer to stretch the truth, to offer spoof,
To prove that Bob’s in heaven.
I know he made it. But I have to shade it.
He’s working at a Seven Eleven.

Now, its just God’s way, to make him pay,
It’s not to make Bob madder.
A new cherub has to work for an Arab,
The bottom rung of Jacob’s ladder.

In a paraphrase of the good old days,
Now that life’s an endless summer,
It’s the first time Bob held down a job,
Since before he was a drummer.

So, he’ll earn those wings and saintly things,
But there is no timely date.
Before Bob flies across heaven’s skies,
He’ll have to loose some weight.

I had to laugh; they killed the fattened calf,
To cut the Prodigal Son some slack.
It just occurred; they killed the whole damned herd,
When they brought Bobby back.

There is never any waste, and there is no haste,
God uses every single skill.
So, there are music lessons and free jam sessions,
While Bob pays off his bill.

I can just see it. God says “So BE IT!”
But not even God could plan it.
Because within an hour, it’ll all turn sour,
Now that Bob has left the planet.

Bob isn't a stinker; he’s an alternative thinker.
God’s expecting him to comply.
Though he commands, the world in his hands,
He can’t fathom Bob’s how’s an why.

Just picture this. In the midst of heavens bliss,
A little angle just taking flight.
His cute naked bum, hauling a huge kettledrum,
And falling from lack of might.

Not flitting with harps, but falling into tarps.
Every kid should learn the drums.
To make matters worse like some diabolical curse,
He’s looked up all of his chums.
Ohhh, the sounds aloud, way above the cloud,
God’s got some heavy cares.
Instead of things, like harps and strings,
There’s cymbals, drums, and snares.

I can hear God moan, “He’s got a Xylophone!
He knows every dead musician!”
All the angels boppin’, while Bobby’s rockin’,
This might have been a bad decision.

There’s Buddy Rich. Bob calls him “Fuddy Bitch”.
The band is heavy in percussion.
Gene Krupa’s there, there’s even Fred Astaire.
It wasn't open for discussion.

Among the Dorsey Brothers and a thousand others,
They’re stomping down the corn.
What with all that class and the heavy brass,
Who the hell needs Gabriel’s horn?

Al Hirt’s along and Louie Armstrong,
Ricardo and Hendricks are excited.
Bob’s having a ball. He knows them all,
And once more they’re all united.

He’s where he belongs, he’s even writing songs.
His mission and purpose no doubt,
Fill in the void, so every musician’s employed,
With pawnshops in Heaven sold out.

ODE TO RASPBERRY JAM

2007-05-16T00:01:00.000-07:00

As Mothers in law go, Margaret was slow.
She didn’t drive no fancy Corvette.
Never took the pill, so she gave us Bill.
That stuff hadn’t been invented quite yet.

Neither rich nor pauper, just prim and proper.
Though, there was a wild dude ranch,
Where young husband Dan, threw caution aban
And William just happened by chance.

Never no others, no sisters or brothers.
You might say Bill was just lucky.
Cuz I came along, and married King Kong.
A part of the family, just ducky!

A Mother in Law, is a virtue or flaw.
Margaret was a blessing in disguise.
And I was just Bea, just little old me,
While she was a woman so wise.

She loved me, taught me, never ever, fought me.
Like a daughter that she never had.
She had her quirks and her positive perks.
And she never did anything bad.

Wouldn’t let us dismiss her, wanted us to miss her.
Didn’t want her life to be a sham.
I pleaded and cajoled. In the end she controlled,
Her recipe for Raspberry jam.

Bloods thicker then water, but I was her daughter.
I’m proud of that to this day.
Although it’s a thrill to be married to Bill,

It’s more difficult to keep him at bay.

In moments of delusion and utter confusion,
Such chaos you couldn’t surmise.
Sometimes there’s twenty, always more’n plenty.
Margaret just baking more pies.

She never did stutter, but she was prone to mutter,
Under her breath she’d complain.
Not so’s you could hear it, but to vent her spirit.

She was much too proud to explain.

If she wanted to hear, she had an elephant’s ear.
No word was too softly spoken.
But in moments of contention, to get her attention,
The hearing aid was usually broken.

Most Christians rejoice to a spiritual choice.
As humans we cling to each day.
We still want her here, but if she were to appear,
She’d tell us, that everything’s ok.

So fragile are we in the things that we see,
So blinded by our lack of love.
We cling to our mortals, in passing thru portals
Instead of the joy of above.

Rejoice and be glad, and never be sad.
Just know that heaven is shake’n.
Raspberries been frozen, Margaret’s been chosen,
God’s already got her to bake’n.

Ode To Uncle John

2007-05-15T18:00:00.000-07:00

I will touch you today in my own special way
Where levity and memories unite.
We’ll laugh and we’ll cry. Everyone must die,
But I know that John’s here tonight.

He’s where he can watch, with his bourbon or scotch,
Probably got his arm ‘round my dad.
They’re sitting on a cloud, watching this crowd.
Somehow that makes me feel glad.
Well for cry’in out loud, it’s a hell of a crowd,
But I’m not just surprised that he knew ya’.
A cantankerous old cuss, but just one of us,
He was perfect as the mayor of Tahuya.

Now you’ll select, the one you’ll elect,
To fill some mighty big shoes.
With his hand on the wheel, he was velvet and steel,
But someone who’d paid the right dues.

Pay tribute to the man, he lived his own plan.
He charted and dated and signed it.
For all of our sake, he created a wake,
And all of us fell in behind it.

I’ll remember the sights and wonderful nights,
As the sun settles over "Mount George".
If it weren’t for the rain, Hood Canal would drain.
Now, that’d be a hell of a gorge.

Sitting on the porch, with oysters to scorch,
Or to barbeque a bucket of fish.
To do it once more, with a man I adore,
I’d call it my number one wish.

He told all the stories, the James’ family glories.
You know, he swam to Hoods Port as a kid.
So I did it to, cuz that’s what you do,
To be part of the things that he did.

In days long gone, my father drank with John.
They were drinking buddies right to the core.
That made it special, so "Regular or Ethyl ?"
Getting tanked up with John was a chore?

If he’s buying, you let’m. But don’t wager or bet’m
Especially if he’s dealing at bridge.
He stays in my mind, as one of a kind,
Like a silhouette, he stands on a ridge.

His friend Errol Flynn, had a fondness for gin.
Their carousing was wild and ferocious.
But a light weight compared, to our fair haired,
For he died years ago of sclerosis.

The Officer’s Club was a gentlemen’s pub,
Ronald Reagan was damned near a resident.
Said young actor Ron, to his drinking friend John,
"I’m thinking of running for President".

So between you and I, I voted for the guy.
After all, Uncle John had advised him.
He knew for a fact that Reagan couldn’t act,
But his Presidency never surprised him.

That puts me in a crowd of which I am proud,
A small group apart from the masses.
With the privilege to say they spent even a day,
With a bottle and John and two glasses.

He was generous and kind, but tough in a bind.
As a champion, he knew how to win.
And pity those foes who chose to oppose,
For they knew not the man from within.

The legends I relish, are the ones I embellish,
Like his cars that he drove off the banks.
Or the mail boxes gored by his battered old Ford.
The man had a penchant for tanks.

He drove Buicks for a while, then he went out in style,
He switched over to Cadillacs instead.
As an old Naval Warrior, they’re more like a Destroyer’
Which suited his foot made of lead.

He drove by the code of the Old Burma Road,
The biggest car is " King of The Lane".
First one to the curve or the last one to swerve,
Countless tourists would curse him in vain.

When the lid was on tight, it was "Oh...Alright."
He really was not one to be picky,
In a grumpy sort of way, he’d grin and he’d say,
"I’m not mad at anyone, ‘cept Ricky.

Out of tradition I suppose, God only knows,
The liquor cabinet never ran dry.
No hinges did it bore, for it never had a door.
Even strangers were welcome to come by.

He certainly had the smarts for culinary arts,

But he never felt the need nor the yearning.
A potato to bake, throw on a steak.
They’re done if the kitchen starts burning.

So he wouldn’t get stranded, or arrive empty handed,
We sent him with his own deck of cards.
He’ll appear at "The Gates", requesting the dates
Of any action or tournaments, from the guards.
To the marines at the gate, "Where’s the bridge game at eight?
Send someone to show me aroun’ !
Never let it be said, that I showed up dead.
Tell the Skipper that James is in town !"
Now we’re here on the lawn, playing "Taps" for John.
Full honors and a military salute,
A Navy color guard in his own front yard.
Not bad for a crusty galoot.
Fare thee well old friend, but we’ve got to end,

You’ve lived a great life and how.
We’ll crack a few beers, in forty five years.
But we’re saying goodbye for right now.

Background on The Trilogy

2007-05-15T17:44:00.000-07:00

Sometime before the famous song title "HotRod Lincoln", was written, preformed and rose to stardom; the "Wipe'n Stocker" was written behind my upturned Spanish One book, while the rest of my class advanced ahead in their foreign language studies. Inspired by my first car, a '29 Ford coupe with a rumple seat, the Wipe'n Stocker remains today, one of my all time favorite compositions. While it was not the fastest car in the school, it was by far, the most fun to ride in or on. Even though it only had a stock "4 Banger" nobody ever beat me across the intersection from a dead stop.

Naturally a sequell had to tell the rest of the story. "Granny's Revenge" was I'm sure the inspiration for the famous Beach Boys "Little Old Lady from Pasadena". Granny got her Revenge before they stole my idea and took it big time. As you will no doubt be impressed, Nobody ever came up with a sequel to the sequel. "Revenge Over Granny" brings every thing full circle and puts this whole hot rod thing back into perspective.

The Wipe'n Stocker

2007-05-15T17:40:00.000-07:00

I want you guys to know, I’ve got the meanest rod around.
I’m taking anything with wheels that runs upon the ground.

It’s a Ford Model A, but it runs real good.
Up front, there’s a stocker, under the hood.

From dragsters to tricycles, anything’s my meat.
That Model A and I, ain’t never been beat.

I got a reputation, all over the State.
The top draggin’ boys, know just where I rate.

Like, just the other day, we we’re playin’ real sleepy.
Came a daddy in a Deuce, actin’ real creepy.

He said “Hey there, you, in the diarrhea toadster,
How’d you like to drag me, in my hairy Roadster?”

His remark made me notice him, this is what I said.
“Get you a ride knock them sideburns, off’a yo head.”

He laughed once or twice, gave a little nod.
“We’ll see how you do against a really hot rod.”

I donned my wild shades, and edged it to the line,
Made a last minute check, everything was fine.

I told him he could go whenever he was ready.
He zipped up his leather jacket then he got steady.

All of a sudden, there was a terrifying noise.
Granny’s groceries flew, “You naughty hot rod boys!”

We were neck and neck, thru the first set’a gears.
The mighty mill beneath me, was music to my ears.

Then the lame Daddy punched it out, just like I reckoned.
So I wound out my Cheerios, and blew it into second.

I let him get ahead of me, just to fool around,
Then I burned a strip around him, to shut him back down.

All this time my cool little chick sittin’ by my side,
Had her feet out the window, goin’ long for the ride.

We were almost out of sight when I shifted into third,
My baby reached out the window, and flipped him the bird.

About a half an hour later, and half way through a frosty,
We were makin’ out at the drive in, when in rolls Softie.

“Hey there”, he says, “you really knocked me dead.”
“Now lets have a look, at that big overhead.”

Just to be a sport, through the slots, I let him peek.
He started cry’n on my flame job, he could hardly speak.

Cause there’s nothing up front, and I ain’t just a kiddin’.
It’s all in the rumble seat, secretly hidden.

And all he saw was my four-banger, bolted to the rack,
While the full house Chrysler, was sleeping in the back.

Granny's Revenge

2007-05-15T11:20:00.000-07:00

It was a month or so after that one sided race,
I had all but forgotten, old Granny’s white face.

Granny had been walkin’ at the start of our drag,
In the cross walks, in front, with this big grocery bag.

As we feathered our clutches, and made like to wail,
Her face was all white, as she went on her tail.

I knew she was swearing and cursing my hide,
But I switched all my thoughts to that car at my side.

The race was soon over, and you know how it went.
I wiped that cat out, and his ego was bent.

He never found out about the engine I switched,
And the word got around, that my car was bewitched.

Well, it was a month or so later, to bring you up on the time.
Absolutely no competition, that was equal to mine.

We was out one day on a Saturday cruise,
Lookin’ for the fools that were willing to loose.

The light turned red and I looked around to see,
Lo and behold it was Granny, in a shot Model T.

No doubt about it, the same feeble old broad,
She looked and she saw us in my cherry hot rod.

“Don’t be so sure of your self Sonny Boy!”
A super stock Stanley was my first baby toy.

The scene was so funny, my sides hurt with the laughter,
I couldn’t quite figure what old Granny was after.

Then she said to me, “Brace your self lad,”
“I’m out for revenge, and your pink slip is had.”

Well, I knew she didn’t have a mill bigger then mine,
So I said, “Ok Granny, that’ll be fine.”

So we sat there waitin’ for the light to turn green.
Granny’s bucket of bolts, and my movin’ machine.

Eight hundred horses, controlled by a wire,
Guzzling on nitro, and fartin’ out fire.

As we came out of the chute, my heart started to pound,
Cuz Granny’s old “T”, was a foot off o’ the ground.

As she pulled on ahead, I knew how it felt,
To gobble the medicine, that I usually dealt.

By the time I wound out my tach to the right,
That hot roddin’ Granny was plumb out’a sight.

I was sittin’ there bawling, when in Granny slid,
And for a last wish, she popped open the lid.

I must’ve been seein’ things, I looked into that place,
But all that I could see, was a wide-open space.

Quick as a wink, I knew what was wrong,
I yanked open her trunk, but her engine was gone.

Granny was cackling and beating the band,
As she hauled down the street, my pink slip in hand.

By the time I figured out that miserable bitch,
The facts wouldn’t change, Granny was a witch.

Revenge Over Granny

2007-04-21T16:25:00.000-07:00

It was dreary day, when I came out of my shell.
I was feeling hung over, with the curse of hell.

To let you know why, I was feeling that way,
The story goes back to that fateful day.

There had been a time, when I was free and proud,
And I owned the wheels that were tops in the crowd.

Then the scandal took place that rocked the scene,
When that grandmother aced my screaming machine.

Needless to say gang, I went down the tubes
My chick was hangin’ out with some surfin’ dudes.

When I came too, I was penniless and poor,
But I decided to set out and even the score.

Nobody knew me in my six-month beard,
And the looks from the people was nothin’ but weird.

But what knocked me from my tree, made me turn numb,
Was the sight that I saw while traveling by thumb.

Some dude in my rod, playin’ freeway roulette,
And no doubt about it, he was winning the bet.

The cops could be heard some five miles to the rear,
But all I could do was watch my wheels disappear.

Like Peter Gunn the gumshoe, I tracked the cat down,
Held up in a penthouse, in the swank part of town.

He’d paid Granny’s price, a mere thirty-five grand,
And I copped off with her address in my hot little hand.

In a section of town I’d never been in before,
Lo and behold it was Granny, with a hotrod store.
She was selling “Kemps” and “Irons”, and “Slingshot Rails”,
And stashing the cash in twenty-pound bales.
Evidently, she’d worked fast, before the word got around,
And made off to the titles to every hotrod in the town.

When I made the scene with Granny, I made it quite clear,
What I wanted to pilot, was some “Getaway Gear”.

She took one look at me, and my moth-eaten threads,
With my toes hangin’ out of my U.S. Keds;

Started cackling and wheezing, she could hardly stand still,
When I said I’d be her love slave, to pay off the bill.

She hired me that day, and she never got wise.
She never saw through my way out disguise.

True to my word, I’d scrub out the commodes,
And for overtime work, I’d feed her pet toads.

I was thoroughly convinced now, that Granny was a witch,
When I witnessed the performance of a medieval switch.

Granny caught this guy, tryin’ to make off with a sprocket.
As he’s leavin’ the scene, it falls out of his pocket.

He laughs and tells Granny, “Ahhh you’re all full of shit, But there’s a frog sittin’ there when the lightning bolt hit.

Man, like I was hidin' in the bushes, scared to death.
Cuz I thought she might see me, I was holdin my breath.

But I kept my eyes glued, and waited my chance,
And I caught Granny sleeping, in a voodoo trance.

Now, to even the score, with her own magic wand,
And release all the studs that were toads in the pond.

So, I gave back what was left of the titles she stole,
But I kept most of the money, to get out of the hole.

Then, I kept her magic wand, and I used it once more,
When my long lost chick came knocking at my door.

Now every night, when it’s late out and dark,
There’s two extra frogs playin’ out in the park.

It doesn't make sense

2007-04-13T15:58:00.000-07:00

A Riddle Rhyme...people who read it, never get it. What is it they ask, it doesn't make sense. First of all, it does make sense if you figure it out. That's the whole point, it was just something that was fun to do for me. Like hiku..highly structured. The first and last words of each line rhyme and so do all the lines together. Whenever possible the alternative spelling was used. Reading it doesn't make sense, but hearing it......well that's a clue.

A Riddle Rhyme

2007-04-13T07:26:00.000-07:00

A Riddle Rhyme

Bare eye, the wait of dairy air.
Bear oar clad, eye often stair.
Where and tare, and lack of aire,
Hare of hair, oar chocolate 'eclair.
Sware! Ewe spill me, juice of pair.
Pare of owners, two board two kare.
Fare of skin and shape of square.
Lair? Of common place, a chair.