Women's Wear
by Mary S. Allen
The poetry I write
Is cute, I must admit:
It's brief; it isn't trite:
It has an edge of wit.
Yet, when I try to write
Poems of depth and feeling,
They never come out right:
Is this somehow revealing?
Down in the Deb Shoppe
Daughter's sparkling eye
Looks for a smart frock
That's here and there revealing;
Up in the Queen Modes,
Mother, with a sigh
Hunts for a good gown
That's here and there concealing.
I don't want to dance
Or spin my wheels:
I'm shuffling in scuffs -
No three-inch heels.
I don't want to work
Or eat or play,
Just want to stay in
Bed all day
And read a sentence
And sometimes weep:
Then comes the night -
I'm too tired to sleep.
The doctor's attempted
Every test
From top to toe
Including chest
And has not furnished
A fine Greek term
For what ails me
Or what's the germ -
Oh, what on earth
Is the matter with me?
Could it be called "Youth Deficiency"?
I had been thinking (I'm no prude)
It would be fun to all go nude,
And feel the gentle breezes thermal
Caress our surface epidermal.
And we'd not need to fret about
What to put on when we go out
Equality would be our game
We'd all be starting out the same.
But all the same?
Ah, there's the rut
It struck me, stepping from the tub,
My silhouette sidewise, posterior
Required clothing on its exterior.
So this philosopher concludes
Alas, that no nudes are good nudes.
Why do we paint? Why do we paint?
The economy's droopy:
Collectors there ain't.
With closets and guest rooms
Crammed like a museum
With paintings galore,
And no one to see 'em,
We still feel a thrill
As we lift up that brush
And touch that white surface
With creative hush:
For we're programmed to paint
For pure joy, not just money
Which is why people think
That artists are funny.
You sit and watch absorbedly
Great gourmet cooking on TV:
Observe the flashing knife so keen,
The crunchy peppers, shining green,
The luscious, orange tangerine!
The chefs are charming: they are deft
Kings' banquets were not better-cheffed:
Sautéing mushrooms, making brew
Of wines and creams for savory stew:
You're mesmerized - this could be you!
The program ends: you get a shock
It's dinner time, past six o'clock
No time to follow chef's advice,
No time to brew, sauté or spice.
Hey! Send a pizza! Make it nice!
As campaign news erupts these days
Air waves are blurring with cliches:
I hold my ears and make a face
When I hear "rock and a hard place";
And shouldn't further use be banned
Of that dim "line drawn in the sand"?
Once it was shiny: now it's grey
Let's put that "smoking gun" away.
And may the sun no longer shine
On "trickle down" and "bottom line"!
Perhaps the language is so tired
Because nobody is inspired.
I answered just in grunts because
She talked on with such speed.
"My, my!" I'd say when she would pause,
Or "Really!" and "Indeed!"
But when she finally was through
She said a friendly thing -
She said, "I love to talk to you,
You are so interesting!"
A lot of water's gone over the dam,
Over the dam, you, over the years:
Here contemplating the torrent I am
Reflecting,
And shedding my current tears.
He transforms twigs, little ones,
Into automatic guns;
He can lift the phone
And talk to Zanzibar;
And the old velocipede
Fast becomes a fiery steed
That gallops off to battlefields afar.
He can spread his hands and fly
Like a jet, zoom through the sky;
He keeps fifteen elephants
Behind his door.
May his powers never slow up
When at last he has to grow up
From the marvelously magic age of four.
Every springtime without fail
I dig, sow, spray, weed and travail,
For blooming things that, indignation!
Bloom while I'm off on vacation!
There are poems written in praise of
The blue of a lover's eyes:
There are poems written in praise of
The beauties of paradise.
There are poems lauding the hero,
And the tortoise who beat out the bunny,
But the number of poems is zero
Written in praise of money.
For hostesses
What blend more numbing
Than weekend guests
And weakened plumbing?
Cooks, let us toss a sage bouquet
To the humble starch we serve each day:
A nod to macaroni, noodles,
Which make just-some-meat
Seem like oodles;
Also to spuds, spaghetti, rice,
Which make meat, once become meat, twice.
Bravo to dumplings, stuffings, crusts,
Which for big appetites are musts,
Nor overlook the bowl of grits
Which on the Southland table sits.
All help to swell the family stew.
They also do the same to you!
When I was twenty-three
I used to wonder how
Life would be treating me
Just two years from now.
Now I am seventy-one
It's not exactly Spring,
And yet I am won-
Dering the same thing.
Cleaning time connotes for me
A sentence to pure slavery;
I must get down upon my knees
And worship the amenities,
And must caress and stroke and scrub
The floor and sofa, pot and tub.
My vacuum cleaner balks and wails,
Its cord gets tangled like entrails.
One should show love
For one's possessions.
I lack those housewifely obsessions.
When to my Maker
I've finally been entrusted
They'll all still be standing there
Needing to be dusted.
Little sister's eyes
Devoured the wedding cake -
A crystal dream castle,
A sugar snow-flake:
The guests were all dancing:
She moved with furtive haste:
Seized a waiting fork
And broke off a taste.
Little sister wrinkled
Her brow with a sigh:
Frosting was sweet,
But the cake was so dry.
(Clamor from the dance floor,
Music and laughter
Sounding like happily ever after.)
Little sister hoped
For big sister's sake
Marriage wouldn't be like
The wedding cake.
The family's all coming for Christmas!
The herald angels all sing!
I'll get a twenty pound turkey
And make up a big noodle ring.
The family's all coming for Christmas!
There's Myrna, and Rodney, and Ted:
And Jack and Sue and the twins -
We'll roll out the trundle bed.
The family's all coming for Christmas!
We'll bring in the huge Yule log,
And baby-proof the house for Ted.
(Rodney's bringing his dog.)
And two will sleep in the guest room
And the twins on the trundle bed,
And Jack and Sue on the sofa -
What'll I do with Ted?
And Myrna will not eat turkey,
And Rodney's allergic to wheat,
And Jack and Sue like Martinis -
What will the baby eat?
The family's all coming for Christmas!
We'll open gifts under the tree,
And when we throw out the wrappings,
Among the debris you'll find me.
She made a sauce to go with fish,
A great sauce, winey and delish,
One to fulfill a gourmet's wish
She just forgot to cook the fish.
She looks as lovely as can be
In frocks she's fashioned expertly.
She cooks gourmet.
Her home's decor
Is charming from valance to floor.
She raises roses that elicit Praises:
"Perfect!" and "Exquisite!"
Her husband's handsome and adoring:
Her bridge game rivals that of Gorin.
She's gifted. Nobody could doubt it,
And she will tell you all about it.
Blessed are the meek;
Love and kindness are all they seek:
Strike them,
And they turn the other cheek.
They do not belong
In this fortress of the strong.
Was Jesus wrong?
I, your hostess, long to bean
You with my Wedgewood soup tureen
And most appreciatively serve
On dog-biscuit your next hors d'oeuvre.
You, scheming female, younger, thinner,
I have to stomach through my dinner,
And while I'm looking somewhere else
You scintillate, my husband melts.
As you take leave of my abode,
(Alas, not via the commode!)
I wave and carol, "Come again!"
While death wishes I entertain.
At last
My fierce campaign is past,
And they are gone.
I hail the dawn!
Join in my pride
I'll fling the curtain wide:
Come on inside!
And then
And then--please not again - aghast,
Agape, I spy a creeping shape
I wince; I cringe;
Again, it all begins
Cockroaches, - and old sins.
Unthinkable
That the trinkets on this table
We bought together:
I don't know whether
I've priced them too low:-
On that line blow
The gowns I used to wear
When we went dancing.
(We went everywhere!)
They're good. They'll go, I know.
And see that bold,
Big sign upon the tree:
Says, "Sold"?
The house we shared for five short years,
Laundered with my tears
Is spoken for.
Now nothing's left,
No token,
Except me - bereft
And broken.
You and I have been wondering whether
We should join our lives together.
Up 'til now I've been alone,
Managing well on my own.
Lots of times you just demand
I should leap at your command
And unquestioningly follow
All advice you'd have me swallow
Dear, it's nice to be a twosome,
But a live-in guru would be gruesome.'
My shoes are called Bootsie;
My makeup's called Pearl:
My bra's labelled Tootsie
My slip - Glamour-girl.
My scanties are Gypsy;
My dress: Diva Drape:
My hairdo's called Tipsy,
My sweater's The Shape.
And I wait here alone
In my clothing of fame.
Will your voice on the phone
Be calling my name?
He's sitting alone in his clubroom
Waiting as slow minutes pass
While his dog's at obedience training
And his wife's at assertiveness class.
I just cannot resist an avocado -
I peel it, feel it, if the pit is split,
All my instincts insist I simply gotta
Pick out a pot and plant the pit in it.
Now avocados may not put out flowers
Or trail a lovely variegated vine,
But they are gifted
With great growing powers -
I've got one whose height
Is more than mine!
To plant,
Place smooth end up over a glass;
Balanced by toothpicks, watered,
Don't forget!
Be patient.
Roots will show as the days pass
And suddenly take on speed
Just like a jet.
And as you set your seedling in good soil
In a big pot where everyone can see,
Think of the fun - and very little toil -
It took for you and God to make a tree!
My brand new washer has a list
What to turn and what to twist,
Of things to do when you begin
And where to pour detergent in:
You don't touch
These complex productions
Without a long look
At instructions.
Instructions do not come with these:
Old houses, spouses, swarms of bees.
How did that first typing expert
Choose for the keyboard's first line "QWERT"?
Had it been you; had it been me
We would have gone for A B C.
Confused, my tremulous left hand
Types words no one can understand.
So I must take a course, by heck,
Or else resort to hunt and peck.
Comes the computer! It is strange
No brave soul's said "Time for a change!"
Right on! All hands will not desert
"YUIOP" on right, left hand's "QWERT"!
With medicine's advances, right you
Will now call "virus"
What was once "the flu";
The cold-in-head,
Whose causes duck detection
Is now the "respiratory infection"
And yet, a nose on any stuffed-up head
By any other name is just as red.
This year in fashion's springtime spurt
We hail again the miniskirt:
The miniskirt, both tight and brief
Can bring unwary wearers grief;
A miniskirt you can't be fat in,
And if of silk, it can't be sat in.
If one somewhat abruptly sits
While wearing one, it sometimes splits.
If you're petite, or statuesque,
O.K., you don't look so grotesque,
But for the average female citizen
The miniskirt just will not fit us in.
Is this a male subversive twist
To trip the flagrant feminist
But making Her cater to Him,
By getting Her out on a limb?
Why do the other drivers need
To push and rush with frantic speed
Zipping and zagging, lane to lane
Each intent, intense, insane
To reach the places where they go Although,
Perhaps it is that
They're fleeing from
Where they've been At.
"A painting should make a statement,"
Her art instructor said,
As he wavered before her easel,
Her brush dipped in cadmium red.
"If my painting should make a statement",
She thought, "What should it say? -
"Should it whisper or whistle or murmur,
"Or maybe it could pray-"
Well, she painted away for hours,
And finally she was through;
And her eyes were tired,
And her shoulders ached,
And one of her sleeves was blue.
And she took it home to her husband,
Who watched TV on the couch,
And said
"What does this painting say to you?"
And he looked and he stated "ouch!"
To my neighbor who owns a big yacht
I observed, "You are rich, Are you nacht?"
He replied, "Once I'd gacht
In my pacht quite a lacht
But my yacht used up All that I'd gacht."
A teacher of speech in Connecticut
Said "A sentence Has subject and predicate;
If you do not know this,
Then your brain's an abyss,
When I give my next quiz, You had betta cut."
At party's end all there get kissed -
A custom I tend to resist,
But as homeward I hurry
I fret and I worry
About those I purposely missed.
In many cozy places there's
A plethora of pleasant bears:
In playpens, boudoirs, bunk-beds, dorms
You'll spy the cute bears' cuddly forms.
And valentines, tee shirts, notepapers
Depict bear cubs in happy capers.
Too, literature gives bears their due -
The three famed bears, and, dear me, Pooh!
But real live bears are gruff and scary;
So keep your bears imaginary!
O, Power on High, protect this plane
From cyclones, fog, and freezing rain;
And take especial notice, Lord,
That no highjacker comes aboard;
Lastly, let no one sit by me
Who talks about his surgery.
I'd rather see a wasp approach
Than be confronted by a roach;
This oil-brown dweller of dark cracks
Can paralyze me in my tracks
And while I, shaking, grope for spray,
The nasty thing has sped away;
And yet, I guess I should be grateful -
To rid my home of this pest hateful,
At housecleaning I, once laid back,
Am now a shining maniac!
But still he will show up again -
The next time that I entertain.
Little white rowboats
Tethered side by side,
Lifting and pulsing
With the gentle tide,
Gleaming where the sunshine
Dances in the cove,
Each one christened
For somebody's love.
Linda Sue, and Brenda,
Tammie and Michelle:
Sandra, Alexandra,
And Lillie Belle.
When the waves threaten:
When the typhoons roar
Little white rowboats
Bring sailors to shore.
Florida, lovely from coast to coast,
Like all lovely things attracts pests,
And the ones that bug Floridians most
Are the uninvited guests!
The party was perfect,
The cocktails were fine,
The house looked so lovely,
The food was divine;
The company was charming
And chic as could be -
There was just one thing missing -
They didn't ask me.
'Tis the week after yuletide.
It's time that we
Took down the wreaths
and the Christmas tree,
Shagged upstairs all those toys of Bub's,
Threw out the burned down candle stubs,
Ate the stale cookies
And drained the stale punch
And finished the cold turkey up at lunch,
Exchanged the gifts and paid the bills
And settled down for some
Long winter ills.
Traffic is horrific
And we'll pay a fine
If we overlook seatbelts,
Or overdo wine;
Speed limit is crawling;
Salt's ruining our chrome;
Gas price is appalling,
Baby, let's stay home!
Our dinner guests looked down their noses
At Dad's oil painting of the roses:
Just sniffed his drinks,
Declared with pride
They'd voted for the other Side.
I've thawed a cake:
I've thawed a roast
But how'm I gonna thaw their host?
This dress is too hot
This dress is too tight;
This one I would not
Wear to a dogfight.
This loud print's too awful -
It makes my skin grey -
It should be unlawful
To make clothes this way!
I just cannot bear
Any gowns that I see -
(The trouble is, my dear,
I cannot stand me!)
Fluff's wee ones whom she's laid before
Me, groping, squeaking on the floor
I view with scant enthusiasm
For she just has 'em and she has 'em.
Her green eyes mother-lovely blurred
Implore some praise from my lips purred -
So, Fluff, you're a terrific cat,
At least, a most prolific cat!"
As age invades
My brain and torso
My unattractive
Traits get more so.
Now is it good, or is it bad?
I speak about the shoulderpad:
The shoulderpad, boxy and wide
Leaves questions about who's inside;
When you've a blouse with jacket added
Resultantly you're doubly padded:
And ladies slender and petite
Appear like captain of the fleet,
Or come across with massive image
Of halfback battling in the scrimmage.
Most women think they're not so feminine,
'But still you see a lot of them in 'em.
My dear, I get quite mixed emotions
When transfers go
With your promotions -
Of course, we will be sitting pretty
In some strange house,
In some strange city
With walls of brown,
(My rugs are blue)
And no one to telephone to;
With different shelves,
With different hooks,
And neighbors like unopened books:
With children clinging
Like poor blind things,
And strange stores where
I cannot find things
The money will be lovely but
It's awfully cozy in this rut!
The wild pair down the street at ten
Have switched from rye to scotch again;
That baby who rules number eight
Just scorned his food And smashed his plate;
In six they use all sort of pills,
And are behind on several bills,
While the tall boy at four, I see,
Is struggling with geometry.
(I'll have more news of neighbors when
The dog's upset the trash again.)
I think that I might have enjoyed
My life more had I not read Freud,
And tried fumblingly to explore
My cerebellum's teeming core.
My simple joys and woes were caught
In traps of No's and Hadn't Ought:
I peeled off layers of repressions
And faced with horror My transgressions.
And finally, sadly, I must say,
I threw the dog-eared book away.
Now my advice is freely yours:
Old Freud is not for amateurs.
"Gather, dear family, over here;
Gather more closely, Mother dear,
Dad, too, move in, Alice, up straight!
Billy, down chin - here's Grandma! Wait!
Everyone set? Then I will snap -
(Billy, you get on Mother's lap.)
Alice, your nose! Grandma, turn quick!
Well, here it goes! Relax folks!" click.
From babe to bald each face wears pain.
The picture's called "Our Family Strain."
The person to my left has been
To Singapore and West Berlin:
The person to my right has flown
To Thailand and the Arctic Zone.
Their conversations fairly glisten -
I sit, and nod, and smile, and listen:
And think they're lucky to sit near
Me, for the place I've been is - here.
The seats cost sixty dollars;
I wore my new green dress;
We dined in town beforehand
On roast and watercress.
The theater was glittering
And crowded to the walls;
The actors all were famous,
There were eight curtain calls --
The seats cost sixty dollars -
t was our big night out -
I only wish I'd known what
The play was all about.
When I confront the human race
I first spread makeup on my face;
I powder then from bangs to chin;
I pencil eyebrows dark and thin;
I draw on lipstick, smear on rouge;
Shadow eye-sockets, blue and huge;
I give my orange hair a shake:
Now I am ready, off I take,
And all I meet, and all who see
Will never know the real me.
Dear son, when time has blanched my hair,
Defunct in limb and gland,
I'll huddle in my rocking chair
And rest my palsied hand;
And though my wizened lids won't bat -
(Of course, I'll hold my tongue -)
I'll cackle in my tummy at
Your struggles with your young!
Her friends are all celebrities.
She cites their names
With offhand ease,
And nodding while you inward grrrr
You wonder if her friends know her.
Tell me, silly Love-bugs, why
You keep mating as you fly.
Don't you have a shred of pride?
Can't you go somewhere and hide?
As you flit from trees to bushes
Which one pulls and which one pushes?
Do the Love-bug customs say
Lady Love-bugs must obey?
Love-bugs, I wish you no good
When you crash-land on my hood!
When you get stuck on my clothing
I am filled with special loathing.
Worst of all, your airborne hugs
Serve to make still more Love-bugs!
When I brake at the traffic light
Right past our house,
I take out my curlers
And tuck in my blouse.
Next stop's at the Parkway,
With no time to lose,
Off come my house slippers
And on go my shoes.
Then a long halt at Main,
Where the red signals glare -
Time for make-up and lipstick
And spraying my hair.
At the light near the office,
Right near where I park,
I pencil my eyebrows,
Arched slightly, and dark.
But I've nightmares each night
Of the terrible scene
I might make the next morning -
If all lights were green.
Mommy said I was two
Though I knew I was three
So the man at the zoo
Let me in the gate free.
So Mommy didn't pay
All those dollars, and I
Learned, to get your own way,
You just need to lie.
Some faucets you push
Some faucets you pull;
Some faucets go "Whush!"
And the basin is full.
Some faucets will lift;
Some faucets will tilt;
Some make one quite miffed
When they yield only silt.
There are faucets which flow;
There are those which do not.
Those with no H2O
Are usually the hot.
Faucets also are planned
Where you'd hardly detect -
Step on a disk and
The thing will connect.
There are faucets you grip
With orangutan twist,
And you won't get a drip
Though you've broken your wrist.
Faucets truly inspire
Engineering ability;
They also require
User mental agility!
In my out-of-body experience
It was disconcerting to find
I'd not just deserted my body -
I was also out of my mind.
Right below my window sill is
An outburst of amaryllis,
Trumpeting in orange-pink-loud;
"Spring has come, and we are proud!"
Leaf ribbons of waxy green
Wave around the vivid scene.
I must feast my eyes upon
This, For next week it is gone.
Little dirt road
winding through the wood-
I'd turn and follow you
If I only could;
Trees lean over you;
Vines reach low
In patterns of sunlight
Wildflowers grow.
Happily I'd follow you
In a childish dream
Winding through a hollow
By a golden stream.
Would I find a sleepy farm,
With friends at the door
Where I am welcomed?
I've been there before.
But the road I'm traveling
Is hard and fast and straight,
And I must reach the city
Before it's too late.
"My dear, it's been months."
Says she on the phone;
And you feel like a dunce.
(Is this Marge or Joan?)
And you strain your ears
To place her voice
Til you're half in tears-
(Is it Jill or Joyce?)
And then she asks you
Over there.
(Now you don't know who,
And you don't know where.)
Can you properly say
Having nary a clue,
"Hold on there!
Hey, Just who are you?"
I must remember
It's five o'clock for me,
For you it's three.
I must remember, as of September,
ASK ABOUT IKE
I used to like John,
But, sure, he's gone. I've not met Ike.
I must recall that little Paul
Is with his Pop (His Pop is John)
I won't go on.
And if you call into the phone,
"Mom, hello, Hi! How are you? Well?"
I must say "Swell!"
--I must remember.
I've reached an age of dignity
And men treat me respectfully:
At parties they don't wink or tweak
Or want to play at hide-and-seek-
They open doors and hold my chair,
And when I sit on it, it's there!
They try to help me cross the street:
I shriek, "Hey, I'm not obsolete!"
Respect's a charming thing from men.
(Oh, to be twenty-nine again!)
Ham, mustard, rye bread, sliced cheese -
A sandwich eater has bought these.
A frozen meal, beer, sugar tart -
These in the bachelor's shopping cart.
Canned milk, oranges,
And strained prunes,
And, stashed among them, baby croons!
Strawberries, olives, six pound roast
Behold the hostess and the host!
Cookies, ice cream, candy, she
Must tip the scales at two-o-three.
And my cart groans. What can I say for it?
Migosh, I don't have cash to pay for it!
Has it ever occurred to you that when
An artist paints nudes
It's never men?
I'd like a cat around the house -
Don't get me wrong - I have no mouse;
A cat to sit and supervise
Things I do cats know are not wise;
A cat who scorns his dish; and goes;
Who clears the yard of furry foes;
Whose lovers yowl at half-past-three;
A cat who will curl up on me
And sit so warm, and purr and purr
So peacefully I dare not stir;
Who leaves hunt trophies on my mat -
I feel deprived without a cat.
At last I have a full day off
With all the office cares way off:;
At home I'll use the time to fritter'
The hours away with junk mail litter.
Early in May comes Mother's Day
And I can hardly wait
To rest my head, to loaf in bed '
Till almost half-past-eight;
To hear the sweet, small, slippered feet
Go tiptoe down the stairs,
Then sly prattle and dish rattle -
What's going on down there?
Long pause. Hooray! Up comes a tray
With just a few things spilled
Festooned by cards of home grown bards
With home-made portraits filled.
I, now a queen, reigning the scene
Of all the joys I've earned
Breakfast on toast, of darkest roast,
And eggs (just slightly burned).
I went away this summer
To far, exotic places:
I left my clinging habits
Home folded on the shelf:
I wandered teeming cities,
Gazed into opaque faces,
And came back with a stranger:
Myself.
If they were scarce as ocean pearls
We'd give a lot more thought to squirrels.
Some of God's creatures are grotesque -
But little squirrels are picturesque.
Squirrels are spunky: squirrels are cute
As up and down our trees they shoot
With twinkly eyes and tails that twirl -
What's agile, clever as a squirrel?
And yet their tribe is so darn many
Bird lovers wish that there weren't any -
They hop on feeders, gorge with greed,
And fill fat tummies with bird seed.
Yet if they vanished, they'd be missed
And placed on the endangered list.
Poems are layers of meanings
My professor said: I lifted layer after layer
Hoping to unfold
A cloth of gold
And found a moth instead.
Siamese cat,
Why do you sit and stare at me like that?
Do those Nile-green eyes
Despise My lowly state?
Yes, I'm no potentate,
No pharaoh's mate
Extending slender jeweled hands
In tender stroking
Of your smoky coat.
Cat, nine lives have moved by,
Castles have crumbled into the moat;
Pyramids leveled to the plain:
Buried is the scepter and the crown,
And in their dusty cases, moguls frown.
Only the audacious And the humble
Remain.
Hail Computers; they can do
Knotty chores that worry you -
They can file, and plan, and spell;
Draw pictures, do math as well.
You can sit back and relax
While computers do your tax.
Gone are wagons, gone fireplaces,
Gone the gowns, handsewn with laces;
Gone the paddlewheelers and
Precious tomes, lettered by hand.
Progress brings losses and gains -
Soon museums will show brains.
His car he gets annually checked,
Oiled, greased, motor tuned up and such;
His own chassis sags from neglect.
But it didn't cost him so much.
Spring trips along the treetops
And tints them lemon-green;
Spring warms the little brooklet
That trickles crystal clean;
Spring rouses cheery robins,
And spring unfurls the rose -
But in my heart there's winter
Until I get new clothes.
Towards noontime I make efforts drastic
To pry my lunch meat out of plastic.
It's stiffly sealed, it's double wrapped
No criminal's been better trapped.
I must find something with a point
A knife, nail file, or break a joint,
And when I finally get to it
I've sliced the knife, or nail file, Through it.
I munch my lunch in contemplation
Of freedom from contamination.
The fractured limbs
Of those who ski
Start conversations
Instantly.
While girls who've burned
Where they would tan
There's nothing more
Engrossing than.
And men with eyepatch
over eye
Cause ladies to
converge and sigh:
Why is it then,
There's such a lack
Of interest in
My aching back?
Those Get-Well cards,
All jokes and zest,
And "How's it feel,
Ya bum, to rest?"
And "Betcher temperature
Runs high
Each time that cute intern
Goes by!",
With much hilarity about
Just what you had,
Or else had out Spur on my fight
Toward good health, for
Then I won't get them any more!
Writers need proofreaders -
Even you and I;
I don't want spelling bloopers
Clouding my blue sty!
Wearily we report
Invariably speakers who
Say "To make a long story short -"
Never do. |