Grandma Tap Dance

Grandma Tap Dance—watch her go
Across the stage she shuffles
She’s wearing ancient tap shoes
And a faded dress with ruffles.


She’s shuffling but she doesn't hear
The music's steady beat.
She only knows the music means
She’s s’posed to tap her feet.


She goes in circles aimlessly
And claps her castanets.
She sometimes knows that she’s on stage
But sometimes she forgets.


And when she’s done, the host says
“Ninety-one! Still dancing! Gee!
I think that’s great!
Put money in the hat if you agree.”


Clink, clink—here come the pity coins
“She’s ancient, after all.”
“She didn’t really dance, but hey
At least she didn’t fall.”


And Grandma Tap Dance, now offstage
Is in a chair, asleep
Her body sags, she looks like
Skin and ruffles in a heap.


Her daughter takes the coin hat
And she lets her mother snooze
Ten bucks, twelve cents—not terrible.
She leaves to buy some booze.


And Grandma Tap Dance dreams she’s young
She’s barely come of age
She’s dancing oh-so-beautifully
Across a lighted stage.


She leaps and shimmies, spins and slides
Until the curtain closes
The crowd goes wild; the stage is filled
With heaps and heaps of roses.


While Grandma dreams, the daughter drinks
‘Til drinks have drowned her sorrow
“C’mon, Mom, let’s go home,” she slurs
“You’ll dance again tomorrow.”


But Grandma won’t be woken up
For her, the crowd still cheers
The lights! The stage! The roses!
Oh, how real it all appears!


“Wake up, Mom!”—Grandma blinks her eyes
Where is she? How? And why?
Her daughter takes her home
And lets her have a slice of pie.

Math for Girls: A Cancelled Course

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plath

Left her socks on in the bath

Taught her own uterus how to do math

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plath

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plud

Dug for worms in dried-up mud

Six times nine and the answer’s blood

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plud

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plo

Tied a kite to a croak-eyed crow

Six times nine is an embry-o

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plo

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plate

Used her thumb as salmon bait

Six times nine is a neonate

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plate

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plume

Pooped in Tutankhamen’s tomb

Six times nine is an empty womb

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plume

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Ploor

Head in the oven, feet on the floor

Six times nine is fifty-four

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Ploor

Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia died

Sylvia, Sylvia soo-ih-side

Sylvia’s uterus then applied

To teach Math for Girls (but was denied).

I'm Just A Sweet Old Lunatic

I’m just a sweet old lunatic

Oh won’t you take me in?

I’m a harmless little psycho

With a pimple on my chin.

I’ve got no place to sleep tonight

You’ve got an extra couch

And I can tell you’re friendly

From your squint-eyes and your slouch.

And so I think I’ll follow you

To your apartment door

You haven’t got a couch?

Oh well, I’ll sleep upon the floor

You won’t regret inviting me

I’m gentle as a cat

I don’t need much to eat
Just one small cockroach or a rat.

I’m just a sweet old lunatic

I’ll keep your pests at bay

Oh will you, won’t you, pretty please?

Oh won’t you let me stay?

You won’t? Why not? Don’t tell me:

It’s the pimple on my chin!

You think that it’s the devil’s mark!

A pustule made of sin!

Why, you’re an old religious fool!

Well, if I only knew!

Who needs you, huh? Who brought you here?

You ignoramus you!

And what’s more, you’re….oh wait

I see. You’re just a knobby stick.

I shouldn't trust my eyes

I’m just a sweet old lunatic.

A Fun New Rhyming Medical Pamphlet

What’s in my lovely birthday box
All wrapped in pink and yellow?
Is it a brand-new radio?
A copy of Othello?
No! It’s cancer!

What’s in my porcelain sipping-mug
That looks so steamy-hot?
Could it be coffee, tea or
Warm milk chocolate that I’ve got?
No! It’s cancer!

What’s in the snout of Rudolph
That shines so bright it glows?
Could it be Santa’s magic
That illuminates his nose?
No! It’s cancer!

Why does the Easter Bunny-man
Stuff all his eggs with candy?
Is it the children’s eager eyes
That make him act so dandy?
No! It’s cancer!

What makes the dolphin flip and leap
Above the salty ocean?
Is it a love of splashing
That propels his glorious motion?
No! It’s cancer!

Why does the songbird chirp a tune
While floating on her wings?
Is it because, when given lungs,
The Great Creator sings?
No! It’s cancer!
 

Why did my doctor do those tests

And then give me this poem?

I wish he hadn’t. I’m confused.

I think I’ll just go home.

The Great Green Goo Man Geekled

The great green goo man geekled

“Gizdom fee, fuzz guzzled gum!”

Atop the wikky-wikky tree

Oh wrinkled! Giblet! Fum!

The ticky-tacky tim tum tap

That toed his tizzled tongue

Derived the meat ma-goona

When the winter wonkle dummed.

“BO HO!” cried great green goo man

“Guz you wut, the wim-wam zum?”

But nay, the izlet fizdom

Hooped the winskies

Every one.

Bringin' the Bacon Home

A piece of bacon took a pen

To write a little poem

About the way it feels to be

Accepted, loved, at home.

At first he wrote: “I am at home

When I am on a pig.

Within its belly, near the mud

It’s quite a pleasant gig.”

The bacon paused, then crossed this out

It sounded like a lie

To act as if he felt at home

Inside a dirty sty.

And so he wrote: “There is one place

That makes me feel fantastic

It’s when I’m in a person’s fridge

Tucked into shrink-wrapped plastic.”

The bacon paused, then crossed this out

And said, “That just won’t do.

For though it rhymes quite nicely

I don’t think it’s strictly true.”

And so he wrote: “I am at home

When I am in a pan.

Sizzling hot and spitting fat

I feel like I’m the man.”

The bacon paused, then crossed this out

It didn’t sound correct.

“Who knew,” he thought, “that poems

Would be so tiresome to perfect?”

And so he wrote: “I am at home

When I am on a tongue.

Within a human mouth, I feel

Invigorated, young!

For though I die as I am chewed

I know, deep down, I should

Because I sacrifice myself

To reach a greater good.

Indeed, I am a martyr

And when eaten, I dispel

All worry, fear and tragedy

All agony and hell.

I give, for just a moment,

The experience of bliss

I am the springtime robin’s song,

The long-lost lover’s kiss.

And to those who condemn me

And declare I’m not nutritious

I say, “What’s home? More vitamins?

Nay. Home is what’s delicious.”

The bacon dropped his pen; he smiled

And said, “Now that’s a poem!”

And moments later, he was cooked

And gently taken home.

This poem won this: http://baconfestchicago.com/2014baconpoem

I Throwed My Lover Down A Well

I throwed my lover down a well

And listened to ‘er drown

I wish I didn’t, but I did

And then I fled the town.

I moved into another state

Where no one knowed my name

But met another lover there

And—oops!—I did the same.

Tarnation! Two gals down a well!

That sure warn’t very wise

I left that city, moved again

And buyed a good disguise.

But shucks, the mask I buyed myself

Made me look right attractive

So then a lover came to me

Although I warn’t proactive.

I hate to say I drowned ‘er

But I did, just like the others

And then I flew the coop, ‘cause

She had six pig-angry brothers!

Those brothers chased me ‘round the state

But I was quick, by gum!

And they warn’t awful smart, in fact

The eldest sucked his thumb.

So they gave up, and I had

All the countryside to roam

“I am a travelin’ man,” I said

“Who lives without a home.”

But shucks, the roamers in the world

Are gals as well as men

And ‘fore I snapped my fingers

I was datin’ Jenny Wren.

“Oh Jenny gal,” I telled her

“I’m officially forbiddin’

This romance to continue

Or I’ll drown ya, I ain’t kiddin’.”

“I drowns my lovers too!” she said

“You does?” I said, “That’s great!”

But turned out, she was kiddin’

And by then, it was too late.

Well, curse my boots! Four lovers drowned!

Ain’t that a nasty habit!

I wished I’d been a smoker

Or a gamblin’ man, dagnabbit!

And so I said at that point

“Shucks, I’m goin’ ta see a shrink!”

And that I did, and he said:

“Find a gal who doesn’t sink!”

“A gal who doesn’t sink!?” I said

“Well, that’s a load of phoeey!”

But then it hit me: “Hey! Why don’t

I buy myself a buoy?”

I thinked of what would happen then

And shaked myself with laughter

“I’ll toss the gal first down the well,

And toss the buoy after!”

And that, my friends, is what I does

And, golly, it’s worked swell!

Except, just once or twice…

When there warn’t water in the well.