When I'm cruising down the street,
I'm not boozing while I eat!
I don't waste my time on luck,
I put my faith in my truck!
Thru sleet and snowy weather,
Our thirty years together,
Outlasted all the others,
All my truck driving Brothers!
But nothing could be finer,
Parked near a local diner,
Than a truck driving Sister...
That's a "Truck Driver" Mister!
we need a truck I tell my man
dumpster, shovel, and garbage can
to haul what? he asks suspiciously
proof positive that he knows me
I like to haul, it is what I do
tossing debris like one old left shoe
annually throwing away mood stamps out my brain
better bring a huge dump truck and maybe a crane
If there’s a dump truck and a car,
Car’s sure at greater risk by far.
A soldier thick headed
Who cannot think ahead,
To whom boundaries and borders bar,
Thinks, let Pak be the truck,
Let India’s car get struck,
So thought a general-five-star
To whom stars were gifted
For getting defeated--
How low things in that country are.
_____________________________
Happenings |43.08.2025| allusion, car, humour
Note: Pakistan’s Field Martial unwittingly called India a shining Mercedes and Pakistan a dump truck. He was of course heavily trolled in his country and all over the world. How he gave India, a rival, such a compliment? This limerick guesses on his possible thick-headed reasoning.
Truck
TRUCK
haul things
powerful
before age sixteen
learned to drive on a farm
I thought I was really cool
“my truck is a tool not a toy”
Consider the man in the street if you will
what's he doing there standing stock-still
maybe like the chicken he's crossing the road
and half-way over with nothing better to do
only slowed to admire the view
perhaps he's pushing his luck
for remaining stationary no doubt about it
he'll be hit by a van car lorry or truck
let's hope it's not so as hearing them coming
the man in the street beats a hasty retreat
making hay he hits the ground running
and his narrow escape's a clean getaway
to dawdle or dilly-dally down all his days
Daddy drove a truck
I'm a trucker's son
I'll be driving eighteen wheelers
'til my trucking days are done
Momma lives for trucks
looking good under the hood
born in a cab
I have trucking in the blood
and it takes air brakes truck stops
weigh stations too
pedal to the metal
coming on through
fired up wired up shifting gears
running on caffeine
it's music to my ears
I have a yearning
to hear those engines burning
rolling down the road
to the sound of wheels turning
hit the highway as day's dawning
I love the smell of diesel in the morning
My dog dug a hole large enough to push my husband’s F-150 into.
How do you know?
Because Poochie pushed Richie’s truck in there.
At least he apologized, right?
He is a golden.
I think they have manners.
Not yet.
He disappeared on Wednesday
The day after it happened.
My ankles have arthritis
Walking is terrifying
Especially in winter
My asthma is triggered by cold weather
I wear a mask, because it helps me sometimes
Today is not one of those days
I crunch my boots over the icy tundra that is Kansas City
Wishing I was twenty years younger and sixty pounds lighter
My dogs follow me, watching me struggle
I am glad they do not yet know what being old feels like
It is a private hell, both ankles feel like they are broken
My shoulder is sore from a spill I took ten days ago
It feels like I have been run over by a Mack truck
Because I am seventy-two, and out of whack.
climb up high
on cold leather seat
and put the key
into the switch
set the handbrake
good and tight
step on the clutch
make sure it’s not in gear
pull out the choke
and pump the gas
switch on the power
and step on
the starter pedal
once it catches
let off the pedal
give it some gas
ease in the choke
foot on the brake
one on the clutch
shift in the second
not compound low
step off the brake
give it some gas
ease off the clutch
with a lurch start off
some today
will proudly say
they can drive a stick
but I wonder if
if I put them in
in 1950 truck
if they could start it
let alone drive
A man with very bad luck
Purchased a lemon of a truck
It broke down on a date
The woman walked away
So in despair he failed in love
My dump truck carries
Lots of dirt
Lots of dirt
Lots of dirt
My dump truck carries
Lots of dirt
He even has a skirt
His skirt is
Around his tail
Around his tail
Around his tail
His skirt is
Around his tail
It leaves a long trial
The moving truck is there,
will they be going soon?
They truck is loading everything,
I watch them as they do.
The moving truck is there,
it’s got a seasoned crew,
the truck is loading everything,
to take them some place new.
They’ve loaded the big couch,
they’ve stacked up all the chairs,
even packed up the bicycles
they could have ridden there.
The moving truck is gone,
the street is clear again,
the cable-guys came by after
to disconnect the mains.
The moving truck is gone,
that house is now empty,
we don’t know who will come after,
I guess we’ll have to see.
They could be young parents,
or be retirees,
as long as they’re not party types
it’s all the same to me.
A growing melody - the ice-cream truck beckons!
Russell's Bicycle Shop - a new bike, I reckon!
At Licorice Pizza - hit record on the shelf!
A stork on a mission - a grandchild, him/herself!
Nathu a sturdy boy,
Comes to the valley to work instead of playing with a toy.
He says that for the daily essentials for his family he has to come down,
But still misses his hometown.
When he sees the uprooting of a tree,
He is in an awe that what will happen to the vegetation in his hills which are free.
When Pritam Singh was driving recklessly,
Nathu looks out of the window fearlessly.
He saw the sky above,
And the valley below.
He saw the deep valley below go by,
And watched the movement of the free sky.
During the accident he lies on the bed of thorns,
Pritam Singh goes to the hospital and meets Nathu who warns.
The true meaning of being a human is to plant on land,
And not to blast things out of the land.
I wish my sentences came with a receipt of words so I could take back what I said, I wasn’t being completely honest when I said I wasn’t scared of him.
Praying on the un-expecting innocent children. You spit out virginity, purity and safety.
How could I not believe in evil when you stood there tapping the knife between your two fingers, the sound of the blade scraping against the wall, the feel of your breath on my eight year old neck.
I could still feel that breath and I scrubbed my thighs until they were fire truck red, ripped the skin of my lips and let my soul leave the empty shell of my body so I’d never be able to feel that form of touch again.
Because who needs intimacy more than a broken man with a retched ego, a man with more victims than morals, a man whose blood is liquor and suffering.
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