A Waupaca Snowday

Yes, she’s a pretty redhead.
No I don’t know her name.
Ask her out? Nah,
It always ends the same—
I don’t get her,
She doesn’t cotton to me.
It’s been like that
From the dawn of eternity.
Bring her home for Thanksgiving?
I believe that’s a bit too soon.
With all that six-foot social distancing
Might as well be on the dark side of the Moon.
I heard from Waupaca,
It’s gonna snow all day,
But the trains keep a-runnin’
On that Canadien North railway.
There’s Loo and her mighty kid,
Out chasing the Loco Progressive!
I tell ya these holidays alone
Are getting a mite depressive.
I think I’ll trip over to the Twilight Zone
And look into Mr. Nelson’s Game.
Ask her out? Nah,
It always ends the same.

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Passion’s Wreck

Another wink inappropriately sent across the room
As I savor the dream of the salt at the base of your neck
Though there is no way this goes ever anywhere
Adrift in the Acadien gutter of this passion wreck

Swirling skirts reel to a hot cajun beat
The Artsmophere swells with Sebastien pours
Wanna go home with me, my belle jolie?
The answer is always: mais non, tous le jours

She glories in the morning, then rules the night
But my quiver emptied long many years ago
But Love never wearies as longing grips ever tight
Though my sad offer would hardly sate a wound so

So unreconstructed in Alexandria, my tall glass half full
Dreams and wishes mingling in a nice vigne rouge
Grateful for my morning porridge and café gratuit
Let’s get to it, cross that bridge at Baton Rouge

Scream down the 10 all the way to New Orleans—
A quarantino not quite following these isolation rules
65 and dying even before comes this Chinese bugger
Not sure anyone knows, besides, they’re all tools!

Again, still half marveling at the sweat beading about your neck
Dreaming in an Acadien gutter fouled by Old Love’s passion wreck