The best rocks roll uphill.
Fire is an animal on the horizon.
Fur is very, very in.
Little roar means hunt.
Big roar means hide.
Wood is good, but tres passé.
He finds random grunting tedious.
He’d rather be alone than roam in packs.
He’s secretly shedding.
And the whole clubbing and mating thing
is just a waste of time, he thinks.
He thinks.
Cantankerous Vichy swans !
It’s best beware of birds
in foreign markets.
To be pecked by voodoo chickens
or bored silly by emus
is not a circumstance
that I could bear.
And so I head
for the shrunken heads,
which run a bit more francs
but are quite tasty parboiled.
When chewing on a rubbery brain
one often feels
a sudden jolt of power.
And as the eyes
loll on the tongue,
staring down the gullet,
one sometimes gets
a brief glimpse of this
blind spot we call life.
While wandering the desert,
I espied a great oasis.
A ballgame was in progress,
Ty Cobb circling the bases.
The Babe was in the outfield
and the Big Train on the mound.
To find a better vantage point,
I looked for higher ground.
Indeed, by the refreshment stand
I found good line of sight.
I figured, being near there,
I might get myself a bite.
Just as I got my burger
and a giant cup of beer,
the crowd all stood as one
and there arose a mighty cheer.
A dubious pinch hitter
was receiving this great hand.
Then doubt set in, there was a hush,
and all turned back to sand.
Mike Webster often played in pain.
Died young, with black spots on his brain.
In football, helmets oft collide,
concussing all that’s hid inside.
A nose may break, a lip get fatter:
what becomes of one’s gray matter?
Years of tackles, spears and blocks:
much like butting heads with rocks.
A diagnosis, finally,
showed brain disease called CTE.
Amnesia, pain, severe depression:
sometimes football’s last impression.
Approaching fifty, out of luck,
“Iron Mike” lived in a truck.
All-star center, Hall of Fame:
now a victim of the game.
This sad Steeler’s tale, we’re sorry,
hasn’t changed the post game story.
To deal with damage of this sort
may change the nature of the sport.
No sexual favors
in cells of his choice.
No showering scenes
with the young girls or boys.
No cursing or joking:
he don’t like the noise.
The celibate turnkey’s on duty.
Ain’t no use in showin’ your booty.
No cigarette drop offs
or dope runs tonight.
Keep contraband magazines
tucked out of sight.
His only obsession’s
with doing things right.
The celibate turnkey’s so straight,
his righteousness seems
more like hate.
