Moose

A scream shot through the frigid airIn Fairbanks by the streetTwo moose together by the roadJust one was on its feetThe parents covered children's eyesSo that they couldn't seeThe cops arrived but far too lateThe moose began to fleeA prize for if you find the mooseWas promised to the peepsFor Fairbanks had a special lawMoose can't screw in the streetsAll down the road the moose were chasedEscaping at the endBut right away the cops showed upAnd flew around the bendThe sound of shots rang through the airThe cops had acted fastThe guns had finished firingThat moose had humped his lastA scream shot through the frigid airIn Fairbanks by the streetTwo moose together by the roadJust one was on its feet

Broke

He walked into a bar, sat his frame upon a stool,Said to the barman, "Just give me anything that's cool!I'll have a Scotch, a Rum, a double Gin and a quart of beer.I need something to ease the pain, to stop me feeling queer."The barman put the drinks upon the bar and shook his head,"This kinda drinkin' will make you sick. You may even wake up dead!""Don't talk to me about being dead," the stranger said with a groan,"I've just got out of hospital and I should be headin' home!I'll have this jolt and then I'll bolt, but let me tell you whatI should not be drinking this, well, not with what I've got!"The barman looked sympathetic as he wiped the bar with a mop."Gee, I hope it's not too bad," he said, "So tell me what have you got?"The stranger downed the drinks real fast, said, "Set em up again,'Tis terrible and it's rotten......Just what I've got, my friend!"The barman leant much closer, feeling sad and tense.The stranger belched and said, "What I've got......is FIFTY CENTS"

Battered Savs

Have you eaten out at a take-away?Whether it be fish or chips that you have;And have you ever spared a thought...For that poor old ... battered sav.Now battered women you'll read about,And battered children as well;But no-one speaks of the battered savAnd its life of torment and hellThis tale it is a simple one,It's not that hard to foller;I was lined up for my fish and chips,And saw the sign "Battered Savs... one dollar."The place was really busy that night,In fact, it was fillet to the bream;My old mate Trev Alley was in the lineAnd I was just ahead of him.Now battering savs just wasn't on,The idea just left me aghast;So I had a chat to the lass who was serving... Marie ... an old friend from my past."Why do you batter your savs?" I said,"I thought you were nice peaceful folk;Seems though.. you're a bunch of sadists..Or p'raps it's some kind of sick joke.Now Marie... she talks sorta fishy like,Been serving seafood for too long;"You're a bit green round the gills there lan,"She said, "Perchance there's something wrong.""Why do you batter your savs? " I said,"Why can't you just leave 'em alone?""We do it for the colour," Marie said to me,"So's they're nice and golden and brone.""Just mullet over, lan " she said,"A sav is red OK?""We batter 'em so's they're golden and brone,'Cos people prefer 'em that way."I don't care about the cala marie," I said,... And the people behind me just chatted..."I want a sav that's been treated decently,I don't want one that's been flamin' well battered.'Now we oyster go out together...And some lovely times we've had;I said, " Do you batter these savs yourself,Or do you leave the job to your dad?""Dad.... eel mix up a slippery batter,'Cos his mussels are bigger than mine;Mine are tailor-made for the job,Mum says I do it reel fine."And I like to do it, lan," she said,And her sweetlips showed not a glimmer of guilt.I've got this bucket and rack out the back,Dad had 'em porpoisely built.I batter all sorts of things here," she said,I batter chicken and fish as well."And I always thought she was the peaceful kind,But it just shows, you never can tell."Good Cod!" she said, "lan what's wrong,You've gone all pale and wan;I don't believe what I'm herring," I said,"I'll flake out if you go on.""Ex-salmon carefully your conscience,Your part in this....... your role,And don't be flathead having savs being golden,Or you will flounder in your sole.""The whiting's on the wall," I saidAnd she looked at the sign "Battered Savs,I stick up for the underdogs," I said,"The have-nots and not the haves.""Will you place your order," the bloke behind said,"Five minutes I've had to wait!Do ya wanna battered sav or don't cha,Just make your mind up, mate"

Languid Cup of Tea

Your passion is my pleasureYour desires served at leisureYour hands coil round that treasureYes -
a languid cup to sip.In these tea rooms they bewail,
The lack of pies and rustic ale,
While all those ladies quiver frail,For that slice of cake you bit.
You know I crave this most,
To spread butter on your toast,Among the condiments to coast,
For that moment marmalade.
With those fine white pearly teeth,
You'll provide me with relief,And restore my lost belief:
The crunch of teeth relayed.You can reach across to grasp,
Biscuits firmly in your claspWith a warm vivacious laugh,
By those lips moistly defined.I would love to plant a kiss,
But such behaviour is amiss,
And would have me soon dismissedFrom the table of your mind.

Camp Fire

When the heat of summer passes, when the leaves wax red and gold,When abating daylight hours turn the night air crisp and cold,This is just the time for camping for a tough and hardy few,Those who pack their kit and campers, (and their friends and family too.)Camping it a time of testing, when young boys learn manly waysFrom their wise and knowing fathers, reminiscing childhood days.One such group of hardy campers tarry in a leafy glade,Lofty forest all about them, nestled in the dappled shade.Just a brace of families camping in that calm and peaceful spot,(Soon that calm would be disrupted, and the peace disturbed somewhat.)Knowing fathers go exploring, while their women set up camp,Leaving children running feral through the forest, cool and damp.After quite a time at toiling, ladies put the kettle on,Then they sit and sip and wonder where the hell their men have gone.Meanwhile, in the dark'ning forest, wise and knowing fathers findOne enormous pile of refuse that the ranger left behind.Thinking that they'd do a favour for the ranger, still unseen,Fathers' head back to the campsite for a tank of gasoline.When, at last, the knowing fathers find their way back to their site,Ladies ask them where they're off to, and will they be back tonight?Fathers promise they will only be away a moment more,They must go back to the forest to complete a vital chore.Ladies once more boil the billy; call the children in for tea,While their wise and knowing husbands creep away with impish glee.In the course of modern living, what they plot would not arise,But in verdant leafy forests, they see things through boyhood's eyes.With the petrol can in one hand, and their wayward thoughts in mind,Knowing fathers find the refuse that the ranger left behind.So they drown the pyre in petrol, not sure if they've used enough,Then they throw a lit match in it and they wait there for the "puff".But the refuse pile exploded, rattling the forest floor.Then, immediately after, came a deep and deaf'ning roar.Knowing fathers scurry camp-ward, as the flames light up the night,While their children scramble from their tents in obvious delight.Hardy campers stand together as they watch the fire blaze,Till the silhouette of fire trucks scream up through the smoky haze.Soon the wise and knowing fathers get to know the ranger well,When he gives the ultimatum; never in his forest dwell!Now when summer heat is over, when the leaves are changing hue,Nothing more our campers light, except the backyard barbecue.

Abort, Retry, Ignore

Once upon a midnight dreary,Fingers cramped and vision bleary,System manuals piled high and wasted paper on the floor,Longing for the warmth of bedsheets,Still I sat here doing spreadsheets:Having reached the bottom line,
I took a floppy from the drawer.Typing with a steady hand,I then invoked the "save" commandBut got instead a reprimand: it read, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?
"Was this some occult illusion?Some manacal type intrusion?These were choices Solomon himself had never faced before.Carefully I weighed my options...These three seemed to be the top ones.Clearly I must now adopt one; choose: Abort, Retry, Ignore?
With my fingers pale and tremblingSlowly toward the keyboard bending,
Longing for a happy ending, hoping all would be restoredPraying for some guarantee,Finally I pressed a key.But what on the screen did I see? Again "Abort, Retry, Ignore?
"I tried to catch the chips off guard -I pressed again, but twice as hard,But luck was just not on the cards, I saw what I had seen before.Now I typed in desperationTrying random combinations.Still there came the incantation "Abort, Retry, Ignore.
"There I sat, distraught, exhausted,By my own machine accostedgetting up, I turned away and paced across the office floor.And then I saw an awful sightA bold and blinding flash of lightA lightening bolt that cut the night, and shook me to my very core.The PC screen collapsed and died."OH NO! MY DATABASE!"
I cried.I heard a distant voice reply, "You'll see your spreadsheets...nevermore!"To this day I do not knowThe place to which our data goes.perhaps it goes to heaven, where the angels have it stored.But as for Productivity, well,I fear this has gone straight to Hell.And that's the tale I have to tell - your choice: Abort, Retry, Ignore.

Perfect Gift

Twas the night before Christmas and Santa's a wreck.
How to live in a world so politically correct?
His workers no longer would answer to "elves" -
"vertically challenged" they now called themselves
.And labour conditions up at the North pole
Were alleged by the Union to stifle the soul.Four reindeer had vanished,
without much propriety,
Freed to the wilds by the humane societyAnd equal employment had made it quite clearThat Santa had better not use just reindeerSo Dancer and Donner,
Comet and CupidWere replaced by four pigs, of all the things stupid!The runners had been removed from his sleigh:The ruts were termed dangerous by the E.P.AAnd people had started to call for the copsUpon hearing sleds run across their rooftops.Second hand smoke from his pipe had his workers quite frightened;His fur-trimmed suit was dubbed "unenlightened".Then to prove the strangeness of life's ebbs and flows,Rudolph was suing for unauthorised use of his nose...And had gone on TV in front of the nationDemanding six mill, overdue compensation.So half the reindeer were gone, and his wife,Who suddenly decided she's had enough of this life,Joined a self-help group, packed, and left in a whizDemanding from now on her title was Ms.And as for the gifts, why he'd ne'er had a notionThat making a choice could cause such commotion!Nothing of leather, nothing of furWhich meant nothing for him, and nothing for her.Nothing that might be construed to pollute,Nothing to aim, nothing to shoot,Nothing that clamoured and made lots of noise,Nothing for girls and nothing for boys,Nothing that claimed to be gender specific,Nothing warlike or non-pacific.No candy or sweets, they are bad for the tooth.Nothing that seemed to embellish a truth.And fairy tales, while not yet forbiddenWere like Ken and Barbie, (better off hidden)For they raised the hackles of those psychologicalWho claimed the only good gift was one ecological.No basketball, no football, someone could get hurt -Besides, playing sport exposed childrent to dirt.Dolls were said to be sexist and oh so passé,and Nintendo would rot their brains away.So Santa just stood there, dishevelled, perplexed;He couldn't figure out what he should do next.He tried to be merry, he tried to be gay(Though you must be so careful with that word today).His sack was quite empty, limp to the ground -Nothing acceptable to be found.Something special was needed, a gift that he mightGive to all without angering left or right.A gift that would satisfy with no indecisionEach group of people from every religion.Every ethnicity, every hue,Everyone, everywhere, even you.So here is that gift, its price beyond worth:"May you and your loved ones enjoy peace on earth."

Christmas Tale

At this time of year it is patently clearThat the males are the ones who are blest.
Thoughts like "goodwill to men" we hear time and againAnd we find them quite hard to digest.As we women all know, men think they run the show,And sometimes we allow them this pause.
But it gets on our nerves, like too many hors d'oeuvresWhen we want to get at the main course.Many times out of mind the same problem we find,Leaving plans to the menfolk is risky.Christmas spirit they think is some kind of a drink,Such as vodka, Baccardi, or whiskey.
Since we carry the load, men keep out of our road,
We are ready and willing and able.For it's perfectly clear, that the stuffed turkeys hereAre not always confined to the table.The traditional way is now rather passe,Lets give credit, where credit is due.
Then you'll see, man or boy, in return you'll enjoyThe fruits of OUR goodwill to you.

Ringo Blues

He's bought himself a set of drums
-Seems that's the latest fadFor them with teenage craniums
Just to annoy their Dad.So now it's straight into his room
When he gets home from school:A raucous thunderous sonic boom
-Could make die dead rise from die tomb...And those alive to fear their doom
-A racket dial is cruel;An audio nightmare of gloomAs decibels and senses zoom,
My ears and I can now assume...
That Ringo's on his stool.As drums resound and cymbals crash,
The airwaves saturate;Bush poetry's a culture clash
-He says I'm out of date.His hair is fifteen shades of blue..
.He only wears what's cool...He bangs away the evening through..
.He says I wouldn't have a clue...But oh!! that noise!! I'm tellin' you...
When Ringo's on his stool!!With peace and quiet vanished now
From in our neighborhood,I get no more milk from the cow,
The dog's left home for good,The chooks have all stopped layin' eggs,
The goldfish left his pool,The cat has even found his legs,
My home-made beer has turned to dregs.Is that a tune ?
- the question begs...When Ringo's on his stool.
The ducks from on the billabongHave all flown south for Spring;No more we hear the magpie's song -He's lost his urge to sing.
T.V.'s a relic of the past -Those drums win every duel;
Not even ghetto-blasters blastAs loud or even half as fast...
While ear-drums flutter at half mast...When Ringo's on his stool.
The Flick man has no need to call -
Our cockroaches have gone;The termites that live in the wall
-They too are moving on.It could well drive a man to drink..
.But who am I to fool ?I have already crossed that brink
-I cannot hear myself to think -And oh...this week, his hair is pink...
That's Ringo on his stool.
So I thought I would be the birdAnd grow myself some wings,
Until today...! got the wordThat somehow changes things.
The music shop is on the phone:This afternoon it comes
-An instrument that's all my own -He need no longer play alone
-We'll form a band that's all home-grownI'm flexing up my gums;
Though I'm tone-deaf as any stone,I'll join the raucous monotone
-Me playing my new saxophone...While Ringo...plays his drums.

Little Rose

Little blue eyed Rose Sinclair,Stood shyly by the barber's chairWhile Mr. Fairclough trimmed the hairOf Rose's father, sitting there.And as she stood, she slowly ateA bar of creamy choco-lateHer favourite milky 'Twinkle Bar'Bought earlier, by dear Papa."Don't stand so close" the barber frownedAs clippings tumbled all around"'Cos' standing there, the chances areYou'll get hairs on your chocolate bar!"But little Rose, a shy young childJust snuggled up to Pa and smiledSo Mr. Fairclough, in dismayContinued cutting anyway.And when he'd finished father's head,He turned to little Rose and said"Have you got hairs on your 'Twinkle' then?""Not yet", said Rose... "I'm only ten!!!"

Customer

Good morning! Thanks for calling us!We're pleased to hear from you!Your call's important to usSo we've placed you in a queue.Please find your account number andBe sure it is correct..It's twenty digits long and if youMis-type, I'll reject.I'll lead you through the whole routinePlease use your touch type phone.Press eight and follow with the hashAfter you hear the tone.If you are a new client here..Press two, ..if old, press three.Press four in case we've done somethingWith which you disagree!You have pressed four, please wait a momentWhile I transfer you..And please enjoy, while we play youA symphony or two!Our staff are all too busy nowTo talk to such as youYour call is so important thatWe've placed you in a queue."Time passes and the music lingersOn, and bye and bye..My cheek and ear go fast asleep,My wrist gets R.S.I.But wait! It may be there is hope!I hear a ringing sound,At last a human voice is heardAfter the runaround!"Good morning, this is Ladies wearAnd may we help somehow?Complaints?.. Oh! Just hang on a tickI'll transfer you right now!...""Good morning! Thanks for calling us!We're pleased to hear from you!Your call's important to usSo we've placed you in a queue."

Rich Old Man

The rich old manWants nothing at allBut the comfort of his moneyAvailable on call.He has no lover,He is far too oldBut his bonds and his equitiesWarm him in the cold.He has no tailorAnd he buys no gear.He totals his investmentsWhen he needs some cheer.He drinks no claretAnd he has no friends.He only talks to brokersAbout his dividends.He owns a BentleyWhich has two flat tyresBut the old man's faxesThey burn up the wires.Buy Emerging Markets,Gold is a SellAnd the old man chucklesWhen it all goes well.And the young folk wonderHow they might switchFrom poor, young and happyTo greedy, old and rich.

Lawyer's Lament

I'll tell yer of what 'appened as I walked along me wayThrough the local park out on a bright an' sunny dayI chance upon a friend of mine, a friend who's far from poorA gentleman who earns his crust by practicing the law'e's wearing his black gown and wig, as if 'e were mid caseBut most of all 'e wears a grimace right across his faceI thinks 'Now, is the problem, that me old mate's just so tenseFrom arguing, soliciting and totting up expense'So I says to 'im, 'What's brought you down to this poor state of graceThat has you wearing this 'uge frown, why right across yer face?'Now it aint often you see a lawyer gag and nearly chokeAs he says "Its them scientists, those blokes in them white coats"They're buying up the lawyers, the ladies and the gentsAnd putting us in mazes for their weird experiments"Now I'm all shocked, I says to 'im "'ow could things come to that?Aint that the sort of thing for which they've always used them rats?""They'd rather use solicitors than rats, those bloody voyeursIn part because there's not as many rats as there are lawyersWhat's worse...", 'e 'angs 'is 'ead and says "It's sad but trueThere are some things, no matter what, that a rat just will not do"So if you see a pack of lawyers, bustling in a raceYou might just find one later, cheesy grin across 'is face'e'll be the one who's fastest, smartest, or whate'er they pleaseJust don't ask 'im what 'e 'ad to do to get 'is brief of cheese

Pedro the Paranoid Pirhanna

I'm Pedro the paranoid PirhanaAnd I don't think that I'll see maniana'Cos some of me matesWant me on their platesWashed down with a Pina ColladaI know by their glances so fleetin'That there's evil intent in their greetin'So I'm watchin' themWatchin' me watchin' themWhile I swallow the one that I'm eating

The Mammagram

I was booked to have a mammogram,on a bus that comes around.I waited ten minutes at the stopoutside the football ground.Thought I might have missed itwhen it pulled up at the kerb.I mimed "Is this for the mammogram test?"He nodded, I don't think he heard.I jumped on with me clean, flesh-colour bra,'Cross Your Heart' with a double-D tag.Changed 'em while waiting outside for the bus,stuffed the dirty ones in me bag.It was getting late and raining.Time to eat, and I was dying of thirst.So I started to undress as I moved down the aisle.After all ... I was the first.The windows were misted over,no curtains or blinds anywhere.Tho' the destination board did say 'Private',I was nervous 'cos me top half was bare.Awaiting with arms folded,it was only eight degrees.I looked around for equipment ...that could do the job with ease.They have to be pressed at different angles.Bit like lemons squeezed over a trout.The only thing I could see ... that might workwere the doors you come in and go out.It was difficult 'cos they were either end,impossible to reach.Didn't matter how I stood,I couldn't get one in each.I rang the bell ... for attention.By then I could have cried.I did when the doors flew opento a roaring cheer outside.I was so embarrassed ...I looked a sight ... you're not wrong,standing there in front of forty menwithout a scrap of makeup on.The driver shouted, "I don't know what your game is.You'd better get dressed.I'm hired to get this football team ...to Manly's ground for the test."Some of 'em vomited.I was touched by the others.They thought it might bring 'em luckfor the game against The Brothers.We won by seven hundred and fifty points,I'm now the team's mascot.Touched before every gamewhether they're playing or not.

KEEP COOL

My life is like a kitchen fridge.The analogy is frighteningHow analysing this white goodGives insights so enlightening.For when I was new and little usedI sparkled glistening white,And when I was open wide to viewMy bulb inside shone bright.My contents stayed so fresh and crispI could instantly defrost.My motor ran infrequentlyTo minimise my cost.I gave the picture I was smartAnd kept a tight schedule.I was quick and efficient.I kept my calm and cool.Alas I am no longer new,I've been well used and battered.I have not been well maintainedAs nothing really mattered.My door seals leak. My bulb has blown.My vegetables froze.My freezer is so full of frostIts door cannot be closed.My motor runs incessantly,Its longevity's in doubt.It rattles loud and shakes the floor.It may soon burn right out.I'm overloaded, overworked.This chill I cannot keep.If I do not change immediatelyI'm to the garbage heap.I need a defrost right away.I hardly can recallThe feel of ice slabs falling offTo free my freezer walls.I know it will envigorateTo warm my freezing coreAnd drip my drips with no controlTo puddle on the floor.Oh what a wonderful releaseTo make a mighty messAnd let the food warm up and rotWhile feeling quite guiltless.I'll rid my shelves of all the foodAnd clean off all the mould.I want to have a complete new startAnd not be undersold.I'll get new seals to line my doorTo make it fit right tightAnd wear a long-life new bulbSo I'll always shine out bright.Before you let yourself frost upAnd be the burnt out foolStart your own defrost programSo you can keep your "cool".

I Can't Remember!

Just a line to say I'm living,that I'm not among the dead,though I'm getting more forgetfuland mixed up in the head.I got used to my arthritis,to my dentures I'm resigned,I can manage my bifocalsbut God I miss my mind,For sometimes I can't remember,when I stand at the foot of the stairs,if I must go up for something,or have just come down from there.And before the fridge so often,my poor mind is filled with doubt,have I just put food away,or have I come to take some out?And there's the time when it is darkwith my nightcap on my head,I don't know if I'm retiring,or just getting out of bed.So if it's my turn to write to you,there's no need for getting sore,I may think that I have writtenand don't want to be a bore.So, remember that I love youand wish that you were nearbut now it's nearly mail timeso I must say good-bye dear,There I stand beside the mailboxwith a face so very red,instead of mailing you my letter,I opened it instead!

Getting Old

I don't remember getting old, .it should'nt happen yet.I need to do some other thingsthat aren't decided yet.Who said my joints should ache like this?my eyesight's getting bad,and when I hit the bedroom,well, things are looking sad.I'm fifty three, how can that be?I'm really not that old.my body doesn't understandit won't do what it's told.I tell it to run round the trackfor seven laps or more.I get to three, it answers me,you're only getting four.When I was in my prime you know.I'd drink ten pints or more,then rise the very next morningand off to work I'd roar.But now I have a glass of wineand things start looking hazymy body likes it best in bedI never was that lazy.At seventeen the big three O,was what I used to fearat twenty four I thought the doorto forty wasn't near.At forty two the big five Owas looming at the double,the big six O is next you know,oh boy! Am I in trouble!When god invites me for a chatto find out where I'm goingI'll tell him, well, I don't want hellthere's no one there I'm knowing,I'll go to heaven if that's OK.and wait there with my hymn book,till the missus gets herself up hereto teach the angels to cook.

Early Morning Jog

Each morning I go jogging thinking, "I'm as fit as in the past",But the lungs aren't what they used to be, my esophagus is tighter than my arse.So with every breath I strain and suck, and there's a pounding in my brainImagine what it's like to struggle to keep up with a granny and herzimmer-frame.The legs are getting weaker with every step I take,And I push myself to the limits to keep the old lady in my wake.I've really turned it on, "my God I've really pulled away!There's no way that she'll catch me now", it's really made my day.Clippety-clop! Clippety-clop! "Hey sonny", she's on my back again!That crusty old lady, and now two friends, and of course their zimmer-frames"Oh shit! They're at my shoulder", and they thought that they'd go passedBut then I coat hangered everyone of them, I could cause they weren't that fast.So now my jogging's over and I start the long walk home,But no bad deed goes unpunished, especially if you're walking home alone.And those dear old crusty biddies, they ambushed me in the street,And stuck those zimmer frames ... well now I can't go jog for week

A Poem For Those Over 30

A computer was something on TVFrom a science fiction show of noteA window was something you hated to cleanAnd ram was the cousin of a goat.Meg was the name of my girlfriendAnd gig was a job for the nightsNow they all mean different thingsAnd that really mega bites.An application was for employmentA program was a TV showA curser used profanityA keyboard was a piano.Memory was something that you lost with ageA CD was a bank accountAnd if you had a 3 inch floppyYou hoped nobody found out.Compress was something you did to the garbageNot something you did to a file.And if you unzipped anything in publicYou'd be in jail for awhile.Log on was adding wood to the fireHard drive was a long trip on the roadA mouse pad was where a mouse livedAnd a back up happened to your commode.Cut you did with a pocket knife.Paste you did with glueA web was a spider's homeAnd a virus was the flu.I guess I'll stick to my pad and paperAnd the memory in my headI hear nobody's been killed in a computer crashBut when it happens, they'll wish they were dead.

FULL MOON

This? You're asking why I wear this necklaceWell, it has a lot to do with recklessBehavior caused by an old childish prankAnd now I'm on the run from danger frank.The other day, Jake and I drove through townOnly to find a young man sitting downOn a park bench, with tie and custom suitAnd since we were bored, threw him for a loop.Said Jake, "hey, watch this, dude!" as they came downAnd the bright, shining buttocks viewed through town;But the man held secrets catastrophicBy light of the full moon lycanthropic.Win a Mustang GT Convertible or $50,000!I saw it first - the hair, fangs, claws, and tailTold Jake to pull'em up and run like hell;Wouldn't ya know it? Jake's zipper was stuckSo I left him there, and ran to the truck.I fumbled the keys, forcing ignitionReturning home safe, in good condition;Jake wasn't so lucky, the reporters saidHis body was found later - he was dead.I still hear his voice, taps on the windowsI swear I saw him once, but Heaven knowsThat could not be, unless the rumor is trueA bite by werewolf means trouble for you.So I wear this necklace, in case he comesLooking for me, I can feel the gumsLocking down now, jagged teeth sinking inI wear this silver to protect my skin.Friend, spread this story from east to west coast -Never moon a werewolf, or you'll be toast.

FUNNY ROSE

It's funny how you love her...That you kiss her cheeks And whisper sugar coated lies into her hairFunny... how you secure her In your able bodied strengthIt's funny, how you look at her Dancing eyes that twinkle within the sunlight Appraising your property with the finest glance Funny...how you look through her And stare at the next bargain that strolls your wayIt's funny how you touch her...Like precious gold that glitters With all the falseness Of the fools that sift for it Funny, how you graze her skin with fickle fingertips That grasp for some form of truth Funny, how you loved herWith the tainted lips and evaluating eyes Funny how you stroke her flesh With the same gripping fingertips It's funny, that I was her...

MAKE ME FEEL

It's funny howYou make me cry, Make me feel Like I'm a lie. It's funny howYou make me scream, Make me feel Like I'm a dream. It's funny how You make my pain, Make me feel Like life’s a game. It’s funny how We try to win...Please, Don't make me Cry again.

MAKE FUNNY

How to make you funny And you are always funny You hide it and It is still funny And that makes me laugh? How to make you serious And you can not be serious Funny is funny And being seriously funny is not that funny And you laugh? How to tell you a joke And you are the funniest joke That makes you more funny and serious While you are drinking and thinking At the risk Of spilling the juice of your lips At my laugh?