Dad was not kilt in the war.
Scotch tape and fine whiskey.
Brigadoon was just a bore.
Highlands are quite risky.
Play on, bagpipe, play,
with your wail and whine.
I’m a Scot and to this day,
I’m drunk but I’m fine.
We’re the ones invented golf.
And we do dig plaid.
We’re a brave and hearty race,
though tend to be mad.
Play on, bagpipe, play,
with your wail and whine.
Haggis is o.k.
I’m drunk but I’m fine.
Mako shark,
after dark,
hint of lime,
is sublime.
It’s because
I saw "Jaws"
that I tend
to gloat.
With each bite,
I say, "Right.
Here’s your
bigger boat."
The snow is so deep, it’s starting to seep
into daily life’s very marrow.
With rivers of ice and white pyramids
one oft feels like Frosty the Pharaoh.
It seems every day the forecasters say,
Get ready for two feet of powder.
The drifts look like waves upon a strange sea,
an ocean of frozen clam chowder.
If I were a child, I’d be going wild,
no school and unlimited sledding.
But I’m much too old and aching and cold:
Dear God, please annul this white wedding!
Love is massacred by candy,
the best ammunition handy.
Pools of chocolate laced with cherry
mark the ides of February.
One day yearly is the ration
cupid doles out for our passion.
Romance draped in jewels and flowers
rules the world for several hours.
Then, like clockwork, slips away,
bloody hallmark holiday.
My girl’s in Chinatown.
She’s goin’ crazy.
You see her, turn around.
Her name is Daisy.
She’s got a knife and by now
she just might have a gun.
One minute havin’ fun,
the next, I’m on the run.
She’s down there in the street,
yellin’ my name out loud.
She used to be so sweet.
She used to make me proud.
But now I do believe
that she intends to kill me.
I didn’t want to leave,
but this shit doesn’t thrill me.
She’s never been the same
since she found crack cocaine.
Just know I’m not to blame
for driving her insane.
My girl’s in Chinatown.
And me, I’m headin’ west.
As long as I’m not found,
that would be for the best.
My Buddha is suffering in the ice box.
His pain is melting all the popsicles.
Grape/orange mantra calls for cleanup,
And a new religion without sticks.
I pray to his grey magnetic face,
There beneath the tide of pink and blue.
Now the psychedelic fridge front preys
Upon our constant need for colorful sweets.
My Buddha must suffer to disguise his chill.
He melts. He freezes. And he melts again.