If I could write like Dylan,
I’d give my soul, god willin’.
I’d kill to write one "Maggie’s Farm."
For "Winterlude," I’d do some harm.
I’d chop off both thumbs and a toe
to pen a "Desolation Row."
Could I create "Masters of War,"
I’d live out life as a crack whore.
I’d do penance for all who’ve sinned
for just one "Blowin’ In The Wind."
I’d even die for just a smidgen
of his songs about religion.
(Bob went electric 7/25/65.)
I like baked potatoes,
and lettuce and tomatoes.
But I don’t like tornadoes,
unless they go to Oz.
Those munchkins are delicious,
and flying monkeys vicious,
the wicked witch pernicious.
She’s got that ugly schnoz.
In Kansas there are sisters
who pray for coming twisters.
Their god is like a wizard
behind his golden veils.
They all wear ruby slippers.
Their hymns are like woodchippers.
The words are all "I’m melting!"
There’s holy water pails.
Religion’s like a water spout,
tends to scare the most devout.
Better worship baked potatoes,
in the skin or out.
McQueens are walking, hand-in-hand, Steve and Butterfly.
Funny how celebrities pair up after they die.
There’s the Powells, handsome couple, Dick and Adam Clayton.
And the Taylors, Liz and Robert: didn’t know they’re datin’.
Lovely Leigh gals, Viv and Janet, always taking showers.
Lyndon Johnson loves to walk with Van amongst the flowers.
No surprise in Art and Henry Miller hanging out.
Same goes for the Harrisons, old Rex and George, no doubt.
Then there’s seeming mismatched fellows, Tom and Ollie Hardy.
And the Carsons, John and Rachel, though both like to party.
Spending quiet time is fun for Karl and Harpo Marx.
General Robert E. and Pinky Lee can cause some sparks.
Marilyn and James Monroe are quite the regal pair.
Rosa’s always teasing poor Bert Parks about his hair.
Bea and Chester Arthur like to watch reruns of "Maude."
While Pernell and Oral Roberts argue about God.
The Bailey Couple, Jim and Pearl, agree to share her dresses.
Michael and Mahalia Jackson seldom share caresses.
Some psychic bond has drawn together Jeane and Willie Dixon.
But Dean and Mary Martin’s friendship needs a little fixin’.
It’s a good bet gossip columns in the after life
would be most surprised that Ginger’s now Fred Rogers’ wife.
I am pleased to be here now
as the head of this great class.
I know my marks were good,
but I am no more than you.
We all had a good time.
We all learned what we must.
Good friends were made and lost.
Not all of us loved gym.
I hope you kept your books
for true words will not fade.
Go now and live your lives.
This day will rule your dreams.
For those who did like gym,
good luck to you.
The message in a bottle
flowed like flood tide down my throat.
I felt as if I’d lost an oar
but didn’t have a boat.
I couldn’t see the shining sea
from this far on dry land.
But several more damp messages
might make me feel some sand.
On second thought, I felt I ought
to push down on the throttle.
I didn’t need an oar or boat
but just a bigger bottle.