Posted by Kitt
And so the time has come to go.
Thanks for your time and the Music and the Love;
Wisht I’d better acquitted myself,
And had earned a place up there high above.
But I’s just another fat American
With no one else better to blame;
Like Journalism on the Progressive bias—
All part of the same tired game.
But what are these chest pains:
Signal push-ups or Pearly Gates?
Gotta go to work tomorrow
With a boss who blithely hates.
So, have another glass of merlot—
Twas an unassuming vintage.
But I’ll miss you ever the most:
Thou of sterling mintage.
But it hurts a bit right here,
Around about where my broken heart lies.
Bury me next to Momma or scatter me in Sandbridge;
Try not to mind those nipping sand flies.
But you better not fail me:
You best try to find the Real;
Don’t lie, don’t drug, don’t cheat,
And never, ever lower yourself to steal.
Now, it’s past time to leave.
[Never got that part right]
Bon soir, and good night.
Posted in Poem
Tags: "good night", Advanced Directives, burial, cheating, cremation, death, dying, etiquette, fat american, heart, heart attack, Heaven, leave-taking, love, lying, merlot, mintage, Momma, music, over-exercising, Pearly Gates, push-ups, sand flies, Sandbridge VA, stealing, Time, vintage, wine
Posted by Kitt
dishes are all done,
plates stacked and dried,
w.annabe poet lifts pen to regale
about one day he cried.
scrubbing for words
to put life into an emotion,
sorta like looking for New Youth
from the latest hand lotion.
top 40 amping at 60,
cds from latter better days;
another February in Austin
as Winter works his hoary ways.
cross-legged in meditation,
another 31 minutes gone,
w. poet nasally focused;
the tear begins its fall all alone.
that jezebel totally shinered
and momma hit the floor.
baby comes March first;
what’s next in store
for all us readers
while the w. poet lumbers lame?
another fish Friday alone;
so what’s up with your game?
no radio for Lent,
and your sacrifice?
oh, we’re no longer catholic—
how awfully nice.
and all the journalists lie,
the job for a politician,
and you ask me,
‘why does a w. poet cry?’