Eponymously Yours
I’m a font of iambiquity.
My rhymes are quite persnickety.
I often use pentameters
to shatter some parameters.
If you hear that I’ve been rhymin’,
find a tree and just start climbin’.
Inauguration
Inauguration day.
The clouds won’t go away.
The sky above D.C. is almost dark.
There’s protest down the block
from people still in shock.
The contrast to the past events is stark.
One remembers J.F.K.,
and what he said on that great day,
flanked by Jackie and the poet Frost.
Now there stands this man,
orange is his tan.
One can only think that all is lost.
As he lays his small hand on the bible,
model wife beside, to take the oath,
one thinks of his history of libel,
feeling grief or disbelief, or both.
"Lock her up," and “Grab her by the pussy,"
shouts an angry voice within the crowd.
"Someone beat that man," says our electee,
“Hurt him badly, do your country proud."
So begins the year of our undoing.
Silence is the order of the day.
Under this, there is a violence stewing.
Build a wall around yourself and pray.
When the Ball Drops
My new year’s resolution
is to start a revolution,
to turn the tide
against this fascist wave.
There’s only one solution
to insure evolution,
to send this despot legion
to its grave.
Take to the street,
tear down the walls.
Negate defeat
when history calls.
We must risk all,
including death.
We fight for right,
’til our last breath.
Mother of Millions
She breeds like centipedes.
She feeds. She needs. She bleeds.
The suffering mother of millions
aims high, perhaps even quadrillions.
Her womb is a room to so many,
it once earned a line from Jack Benny.
Her milk, if collected in jars,
would reach half the distance to Mars.
She has sixty daughters named Millie,
and unisex thousands named Billie.
Though none of ’em strays from her sights,
there’s hardly a handful that writes,
Her life’s been spent spreading her legs.
Who knew she’d contain all those eggs?
There’s sixty-five daughters named Janet.
Her spawn are all swarming the planet.
God bless you, good mother of millions.
Surprisingly, most are Sicilians.
Pill Papa
Can you write me a prescription,
doc, for some dilaudid, please?
I heard it helped with Elvis.
I have trouble with my knees.
And maybe a few percodans
would help me with my head.
But if you’re running low on those,
darvon will do instead.
Of course I’ll need some valium
to quell this morning shake.
I always wake up groggy
from the sleeping pills I take.
And, while you’re at it,
opiods and pill form THC
would really ease my ailments,
doc; they’ll be the death of me.