Father Time, it’s no crime
to be growing older.
We’re all weathering away,
tethered to life’s boulder.
As we age, comes a stage
where that rock rolls faster.
Everyone’s a slave to time.
No one is its master.
Skin gets cracked, body bowed,
footsteps come much slower.
Everything now seems a load.
Voices all get lower.
Soon the clock will wave its hand,
as if in goodbye.
Hourglass is out of sand.
Comes the time to die.
There is no common use
for the hue chartreuse.
And even more obtuse:
what does one do with puce?
Some seek fame and some seek culture.
I want to adopt a vulture.
Some need structure in their day.
I incline toward birds of prey.
Some like boys and some like girls.
I like birds who eat dead squirrels.
Some like cold and some like heat.
I like wingspans of eight feet.
Some like dancing cheek-to-cheek.
I like bald heads with a beak.
In my vulture paradise,
I would scatter lunch, dead mice.
I don’t want to be its captor,
more its pal: me and my raptor.
10. Every Day / Buddy Holly
9. Every Mother’s Son / Chris Smither
8. Everybody’s Talkin’ / Fred Neil
7. Emile’s Vietnam in the Sky / Elvis Perkins
6. Early Morning Rain / Gordon Lightfoot
5. Earth Angel / The Penguins
4. Everything You Can Think / Tom Waits
3. Eve of Destruction / Barry McGuire
2. Electric Avenue / Eddy Grant
1. Endless Sleep / Jody Reynolds
Everybody’s Trying To Be My Baby The Beatles
Eight Miles High / The Byrds
Everybody Wants To Go To Heaven (But Nobody
Wants To Die) / Ellen McIlwaine version
Boots Poffenberger played in only fifty-seven games
but arguably had one of the all-time baseball names.
Frank Baumann’s ’60 ERA was league-best two-six-seven.
The southpaw never matched that, his career mark: four-eleven.
Billy Rohr was one strike from a no-no in first start.
An Elston Howard single broke the Red Sox lefty’s heart.
Nelson Cruz was not a basher back when he was clean.
But PED’s turned him into a round-tripper machine.
No hot water to get into.
No wolf at the door.
Furnishings are sparse but they will do.
All night sounds of knocking knees,
pokeweed whistles "More."
There is absolutely not a view.
Here the blue moon never sets.
Roads all lead nowhere.
If it’s peace you’re looking for,
you will find it there.
Your bed may not be too soft.
It’s a lower berth.
Pillow might feel like a rock.
Blanket’s made of earth.
Say goodbye to apple pie.
Hello cabin in the sky.
The tolerable threes quickly turn
to the frightening fours,
then fiddling fives and
by slick six they’re roaming outdoors.
A brief blast of sovereign seven,
then ennobled eight starts to leaven.
By nay nine they’ve picked up a pen
and write diatribes by terse ten.
Enlightened eleven may see a growth spurt.
And by tortured twelve they perfect throwing dirt.
All hell then breaks loose in tense teens,
as if they’d consumed magic beans.
God knows if they make it to twenty,
you will have been tortured aplenty.
At twenty-one they turn adult
and join the establishment cult.
It’s then they avoid you like rabies.
Your only hope left is grand babies.
Polar bear got nowhere
to go once the ice all melts away.
They’re just bears. No one cares.
‘Til they come to your backyard
My tap shoes are tapped out.
My clogs are clogged, no doubt.
My wingtips have all flown
away with herringbone.
My loafers just look tired,
my brogans uninspired.
My cleats are dull from sporting lull.
My car shoes got hot wired.
My sneakers snuck away
because I would not play.
My boots all need new heels.
My roller skates lost wheels.
My sandals were all swiped by vandals
somewhere by the sea.
My hush puppies were chewed by dogs.
So now my feet run free.
Hacks of all nations
repair to your stations.
Some sentences need to be written.
to puncture the shy and once-bitten.
The front page must rage
with outrage and opinions
that make the poor populace chatter.
All life is a stage
to our bit-playing minions.
The truth of the script doesn’t matter.
The more we make bleed,
the more they pay heed.
They’re eating lies out of our hand.
The headlines that yell
the loudest will sell.
You kings of the worldwide newsstand.