MORE HUMOROUS POETRY
Please Pass the Liniment
Just why do they call it, "The ripe Golden Age,"
That period just prior to leaving life's stage?
The time of enchantment, completing my goal,
All labors are ended; now resting my soul.
Such beautiful lyrics; how sweetly they sound.
I wish I could buy them, a nickel a pound;
Yet, still in my future, I sadly behold --
That rose-colored glasses won't lighten my load.
My heart is aflutter with pulse slowing down;
My eyes seeing double and legs muscle-bound.
The Age that looks Golden for others to see,
With creaking old joints seems quite Rusty to me.
Gabby Ann
Now, Gabby Ann, though fair of face,
Spread news around t'was her disgrace.
Although her church pew held her frame,
Her daily broadcasts were a shame.
On Sunday morn, her voice would ring,
"O for a thousand tongues to sing."
The preacher winced, then prayed a lot;
"Lord, tame the busy one she's got."
Getting the Point
An epidemic struck the town,
The patients came from miles around --
To get their shots, their only hope,
With this the doctor could not cope.
The lines outside grew steadily,
The doc inside barked wearily;
"It greatly helps the line to thin,
If the patient's will come BACKING in."
What! No Plot?
They said if I would read a book,
I'd act quite literary.
I browsed through shops and then I took
This Wester's Dictionary.
I've just completed Chapter M.
Can't say I care a lot;
But Webster's style I must condemn,
So far -- he has no plot.
He Went Thataway
List' to the tale of Miser Mac,
Who keenly loved his wealth to stack.
Although his plans were heaven bent,
His greedy ways were evident.
Beneath the eaves he stored the box
Which housed his treasures bonds and stocks.
"I'll pick this up, at my ascent,
When I'm deceased," was his comment.
Then came the day as sure as rain,
When Miser Mac left this domain.
The neighbors staged a mock lament;
(T'was done in sheer abandonment.)
At last the box, intact, was found,
It's treasures safe, and still earth-bound.
Mac sought another firmament,
It's doubtful now which way he went.
The Ageless Ones
The ten best years of life are those --
A woman seldom will disclose.
She trips through life her age to cloak,
Eluding time; a masterstroke.
Still, were her age contested be,
None but a fool would disagree.
Her ten best years are still, t'is true,
Twixt thirty-one and thirty-two.
Boomerang
Go slowly in revealing the faults of a friend;
For the finger you point so askew,
Is but part of your hand that could rightly extend --
The other three fingers at. . . . .you.