No one uses fuses any more.
You cannot find them in a hardware store.
So if you own a house with ancient wiring,
you’d better pray your fuses aren’t expiring.
You’ll need to get your fuse box overhauled,
says every electrician that I’ve called.
They say, "You’ve still got fuses and not switches?"
And then dissolve right on the phone in stitches.
I wish that I could shock away their smirking,
if only my electric was still working.
Some say a man who plays gin rummy
must be bored or else a dummy.
What a waste of time and mind
trying to find three of a kind.
Yes, but there’s the same suit run.
Oh, they smirk, that sounds like fun.
Those that don’t play find it shocking,
sitting, shuffling, all night knocking.
Finally, someone yells out "Gin!"
Then it all begins again.
Real men fix cars, work in yards.
Desperados fall to cards.
Life must be a real train wreck
if one’s heart lies in the deck.
Players, though, say that’s not true,
citing reasons, fifty-two.
Kings and Queens sit at their table.
Top that, Jack, if you are able.
If it was God invented mucus for our sinus cavities,
He’d be the damned George Lucas of headspace depravities.
Nasal canals fill up with liquid that turns into rock,
then melts again and squirms like squid and dribbles down one’s frock.
Thank doctors for their decongestants, drying up face tunnels.
Without them we’d be like contestants, racing to fill funnels.
If God invented sinus drip, it had to be a crock.
No maker would be quite so flip lest He owned Kleenex stock.
They found him under Milk Duds,
dead in a movie seat.
The melted chocolate caramel
was all stuck to his feet.
His death was quite a mystery,
but there were several hints.
His eyes were stuck with Jujubes,
mouth filled with Junior Mints.
"Aha! I’ve found the cause of death,"
yelled out a local copper,
pulled from the throat, big as a boat,
breathtakingly, a Whopper.
There was a walrus
used to hang with whales.
His bonding efforts
all were epic fails.
He had no blubber
nor blow hole.
He didn’t have
a whaling soul.
His tusks, they said,
were too damned long.
He couldn’t sing
the whaling song.
His body couldn’t glide
throughout the water.
They shunned him
and he said, Okay,
go on about
your humpback way.
I’ll miss your krill,
but I won’t miss
your slaughter.