Best Fat Chance Poems
For flowery words I have no gift
deep thoughts I'm rarely thinking
And when it comes to penmanship
my dear I fear I'm stinking
But none the less amid this mess
I'll sum up for your pleasure
Donations to our mutual fund
you've granted in full measure
In 'sixty-two who knew that you
would be my life-long buddy
We'd both tried once, struck out at love
our crystal ball was muddy
We'll make it work this time we said
but no one thought we meant it
The means it seems for life-long dreams
had not yet been invented
Of course I knew that you were who
I prayed would share my dreaming
Of mountain cabins babbling brooks
blue lakes with rainbows teeming
But you were from a Texas town
and I a guy from Brooklyn
So fat chance you and I would fly
where angels yearn to look in
Now reassessing all those years
of mutual indenture
The motorcycles horses boats
and trips of wild adventure
I know I owe it all to your
intrepid flexibility
That we hold these fond memories
to warm us through senility
Just another warrenpiece
Pay no mind to man behind the curtain.
You've learned the superficial but his depths are still uncertain.
You tried to plot his course and see that death is lurking.
Look into his eye and you'll see the drugs are working.
It's the sad sad tale of the promise land.
Where you calculate your worth with a cyber hand.
Where you're notified daily that no one understands.
With modern civil rights as false as facebook friends.
They say "We've got to come together; gotta make this right!"
Fat chance of that happening unless you pass that pipe.
On this bureaucratic farm with it's produce ripe.
They cultivate the origins of your foresight.
Playing on your misery as if it were delight.
Still you are convinced you're in a fair fight....
a villanelle
Who has fallen in love with the couch?
Who remembers the days of sweet romance?
Maybe Miss Piggy and Oscar the Grouch.
Hub spends much time napping, as I can vouch,
more than with me. A date night? fat chance.
Who has fallen in love with the couch?
I think he loves me; if I ask, it’s ouch -
he cannot believe I’d ask in askance.
Yes, I’m Miss Piggy; he’s Oscar the Grouch.
I spend much time nagging him not to slouch.
In public, we smile, hold hands, and dance,
but he’s fallen in love with the couch.
There’s a secret valentine at our house
this February; I know in advance.
Gift for Miss Piggy "from" Oscar the Grouch.
A heart-shaped pillow, a kind of a pouch
to hold my dreams as he snores in a trance.
Now who has fallen in love with the couch?
Miss Piggy who loves her Oscar the Grouch.
written 5 February 2016
Tis quite a beast of burden to bear atlas (shrug off not allowed)
Atlas shrugged an impossibility
tantamount to skinny dipping in the lock nest lagoon
Tantamount to shrugging Atlas off mine bony,
ill suited, widower wizened shoulders,
would take naked fat chance in Fountain Head of virgin waters,
eddy fied with huge boulders
which preliminary sketches to maintain pristine
(pure as Snow White's booty) kept in folders
when collaborative effort called, the fore mid able,
trio, sans state of the artists
(within their respective trades as writer
fictional hero, and architect)
Ayn Rand, John Galt, and Howard Roark,
who undertook resplendent measures
affected resilient as omnipotent cable
tub ring plenti kickstarting linkedin gatecrashers
to a snapchatting halt
instagramming, crowdsourcing, crowdfunding,
held at equivalent asper Bay of Pigs
viz Pay of Bigs
(in this context identified as
(vudu trained stalwarts, petsmart outlook,
incorporating literary, metaphorical,
nautical staff comprising fable
sea Crete cure metamorphoses abilities, as failsafe method –
i.e., physically, instantaneously, architecturally rendering
modus operandi capacity asper quick as blazing saddles
(ponied up by young Frankenstein)
kept in fireproof stable,
where at dextrous fingers ala hocus-pocus prestidigitation
which chiefly buoyantly ardently, and hardily drafted imp pier re: hull
rock hull impediment for shore also cast evil spells should
any foolish soul, who dared
to maneuver past the near blinding pier sing redoubt
to access blue lagoon like watery oasis
shielded via reeking poor Island
(where an atomic rooster gargoyle shrouded parapet)
buffeted the crashing waves against
the lock smooth as a glass table
whose wooden sea legs solidly affixed
to hip, hip hooray three chairs
inviting two story book heroes plus the author,
unfurling parchment scriptural roles invited ad lib flairs
since threat of category five hurricane
manifested took writer by surprise,
thus requiring her to utilize cognitive gears
which necessitated modification of original plot,
now bumped credos with religion
vis a vis engendering prayers.
THE MORNING WAS PLEASANT, THE WEATHER WAS FINE,
BREAKFAST OUT OF THE WAY, FISHING WAS ON MY MIND.
I’D WAITED ALL WEEK, BUT IT HAD FINALLY ARRIVED,
GOING FISHING AT LAST, THANK GOODNESS ALIVE.
WITH REEL IN MY HAND, TACKLE BY MY SIDE,
I HEADED ON OUT, NOT TOO LONG A RIDE.
TO THE LAKE I WAS GOING EARLY ON THIS MORN,
BEFORE DAYBREAK, AND BEFORE THE SUN WAS BORN.
WITH COOL DRINKS IN THE ICE CHEST, LISCENCE BY MY SIDE,
I’D BE OUT FISHING BEFORE A BABY BIRD CRIED.
GETTING TO THE LAKE, NO TROUBLE I HAD,
I LEARNED ALL THIS EARLY, STRAIGHT FROM MY DAD.
HE SAID, GO OUT EARLY, BRING THEM ON IN,
THAT’S WHEN YOU CATCH THEM, HE SAID WITH A GRIN.
I SURVEYED THE AREA, ALL GLOOM AND ASLEEP,
I’D CAST TOWARD THE MIDDLE, OUT WHERE IT WAS DEEP.
I PULL BACK MY ARM TO GET A GOOD SHOT,
BUT WHEN I WENT FORWARD’S THAT’S WHEN THINGS GOT HOT.
CAUGHT MY LINE ON A TREE BRANCH, LIKE TO BROKE MY ARM,
THOUGHT I HEARD SOME ONE SAY, NO FOUL NO HARM
WELL THAT MADE ME MAD, THAT’S WHEN THE TROUBLE BEGAN,
I YANKED AND I YANKED AND YANKED ONCE AGAIN.
NO MATTER HOW HARD I TRIED TO GET THE LINE FREE,
THAT DAD BOB BRANCH WOULDN’T GIVE IT BACK TO ME.
WELL, I THREW DOWN MY REEL, AND CLIMBED UP THAT TREE,
I COULD SEE IT WAS GOING TO BE TROUBLE TWEEN THAT BRANCH AND ME.
WELL I FINALLY CRAWLED OUT ON THAT BIG BRANCH.
FIXING TO GET MY WRAPPED UP LINE UNHOOKED, FAT CHANCE.
CAUSE ALL OF A SUDDEN AND MUCH TO MY SUPPRISE,
I WAS ON A HORNETS NEST, RIGHT THERE BEFORE MY EYES.
YOU TALK ABOUT PANIC, I THINK IT WAS TOO LATE,
CAUSE WHEN THEY STARTED UP, SEEMS THEY OPENED THE GATE.
LORD! I HOLLOWED OUT AS MY FEET HIT THE GROUND,
GET ME OUTTA THIS MESS AND MY LIFE I’LL KEEP SOUND.
THEM SUCKERS WAS POPPING ME, POPPING LIKE HECK,
I JUMPED IN THE LAKE, WAY OVER MY NECK.
SEEMED LIKE HOURS, BEFORE I HAD THE NERVE TO COME UP.
LUCKILY THEY WERE GONE, ME I WAS SOAKED LIKE A PUP.
I EASED TO MY TRUCK, GOT IN AND STARTED OUT FAST,
THEY CAN HAVE MY FISHING GEAR AND THEY CAN KISS MY FOOT.
IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE : Part XVIII
IF you pull a long dopey face
The least one can in this case say
You don't belong to the eskimo race
Who lament the sun sunk in iced bay
Now if you pull that long limp face
Hoping someone will notice your dismay
Best not to peek through burka-nikah lace
Take the next flight out of tent on any airway
Yet if you keep pulling that long hangdog face
Ev'ry chance you'd be called upon to act in a play
For who knows how to imitate Droopy's face
Who has heard of a cartoon dog star on Broadway
If you pulled hard at that long hangdog face
Through wearisome rehearsals day after day
Fat chance you'll be nominated to play Scarface
No long-faced dogs allowed on stage in Broadway
So if you must pull that long hangdog face
Make certain the collar the leash does not betray
The long-buried wolf in the dog might surface
And actors feast on wolf sans ShutDown back pay
© T. Wignesan - Paris, January 9, 2019
He hasn't said ten words to me -
for say, two hours and one long half.
I might as well be absentee
except for an off-handed laugh.
He takes football with white hot fun;
if we're behind, he catches fire!
The game is done, I think we won
and we are headed for the car.
So maybe now I'll have his voice?
Fat chance, it's only radio.
He's flipping channels, makes his choice
finding at last - the post-game show.
When in the drive the static stops,
the dog is howling at the door.
He lets her in, and rubs her chops
then play by play tells her the score.
I head for bed and say goodnight
but does he note my lonesome tone?
What’s that I hear? You guessed it right -
a message on the speaker phone.
Hillary, dear Hillary—where do we begin?
In your tale of deceit and corrupt political spin.
First lady, poor victim—
‘Vast Right Wing’ to blame,
A Chicago born, carpet bagging, New Yorker—how lame.
For over four decades, you ruthlessly fought,
Every virtuous ideal the forefathers sought.
With convictions as sound—as a lifeboat that sinks,
You’re a Chameleon, Hyena, a slithering snake,
who for votes flip flops often—just whatever it takes!
Stolen funds meant for Haiti, Clerical errors to blame,
at the foundation “helping po folks,” that bears your last name,
problem is—no one knows, where this ‘help’ can be seen.
while your net worth exponentially expands to obscene!
Fat chance ‘crooked Hillary,’ parts with the cash
from your “pay to play” system, illegal and brash.
Your condescension exceeds, what most tolerate,
like a child who needs spanking, or a belligerent inmate.
The fawning from media, won’t take you to task,
over emails, Benghazi, Russian Uranium—they won’t ask!
Liberals, dead voters, and criminals don’t care,
‘bout your pile of dead bodies, or ELITIST fanfare.
Just a history of coincidences—corpses intact,
and secret home email server, foreign governments hacked.
while two former presidents’ lies had your back!
You’re the Eva Perón of the United States,
Your red badge of courage—a life of mistakes
As queen of all feminists, their abortion namesake
Whose politically correct mantra remains,
WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE?
It was the best cherry-cola that I ever had.
It’s the aftertaste now that’s incredibly bad.
It was 1953, at the corner Five and Dime.
I still think it might have been some sort of crime.
I had saved enough money from mowing some yards,
to buy one more pack of Topps Baseball Cards.
As I peeled back the wrapper, anticipation grew,
hoping to find an all-star, maybe two.
But, treasure doesn’t always appear like one thinks.
“Nothing” I yelled out, “This totally stinks.”
Some rookie named Mantle was all that I found.
“Fat chance of him ever sticking around.”
My buddy there with me was a big Yankees fan,
a sucker, I thought, for my ingenious plan.
With considerable effort, I convinced him to swap,
my “worthless” card for his “priceless” pop.
The bottle’s still worth a nickel at the store,
The “Mick”? I’d guess, just a little bit more.
It sits on my shelf, like a trophy I earned,
A reminder to me of a lesson once learned.
Note: The 1952 Rookie Mickey Mantle card has been
valued at over $50,000 by some price guides. – Wow!
I have lots of old baseball cards I collected as a kid, but
not this one. I wrote this as I watched an old-timer tell
a shop-owner about one that “got-away.”
Courier arrived today,
Doorstep gift in the usual way,
Nothing better than this,
Inhale wool to craft and knit,
It's about textures and threads,
No wool is what I dread,
"Fat chance!' is what the crafters said!
Murk Rammer froze as he felt the nuzzle
of a snub-nosed thirty-eight’s deadly muzzle.
Louis The Retch poked it into his back.
“The jig’s up, Rammer. I ain’t cuttin’ no slack.”
Murk had been tricked by a double-crossing dame,
alias “Frigitte,” he didn’t know her real name.
She’d been his undoing, that cute little louse,
undoing the buttons on her bulging blouse,
then slipping out of her slip and her hose,
and her holster too; yeah, she had one of those.
He’d fallen for Frigitte, completely deluded.
She’d come on strong, delightfully denuded.
She’d kissed him hard and let him get a good grab,
but when he dozed off she skipped out and blabbed.
The shamed shamus woke up and found a clue
and went to a warehouse -- a decision he’d rue.
He’d fallen for the ruse, he’d taken the bait,
and walked right in to a date with fate.
That darn dame had put him on the spot.
He was one peeved peeper who’d loved for naught.
The warehouse was full of contraband goods.
They belonged to The Retch, a sleazeball hood --
lead falcons from “Malta” and vases from “Ming,”
dubious diamonds and other blarney-ish bling,
a lading of lies from a smug little smuggler,
who played for keeps and went for the jugular.
And now The Retch had gotten the drop.
No chance for Murk to call for the cops.
“It’s curtains for you,” the Retched one said,
“The only way out is to go down dead.”
“You win,” Murk said, with a little shrug.
He knew he was beat and waited for the slug.
A bullet in the back was the final payoff.
Fat chance The Retch would decide to lay off.
Murk heard the click of a cocked-back hammer
and waited for death in his taciturn manner.
Bang! went a gun – but not the thirty-eight.
The shot came from someone hiding behind a crate.
The Retch went down with blood on his chest,
then high heels approached; you know the rest.
Bad girl Frigitte leapt into Murk’s arms.
She just couldn’t stand to see him harmed.
And that had been Murk’s ace in the hole,
playing so well the Romeo role.
He wrapped his arms around Frigitte’s waist
and their mouths joined together, such a spicy taste!
Then he took her hand and led her out
into rain washed streets where wet shadows slouched.
Did Murk turn Frigitte in to the cops?
Or let love fill his head with mushy slop?
The ending of this tale I’ll leave up to you,
but as for me, I haven’t a clue.
UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: XLIV
Don’t translate poems if you want yours read.
A pain in the ass is a pain nevertheless.
A « race" in any other language is still the shape of the nose.
Every cloud hides shining gold that reveals the silver lining.
It’s the darkest cloak which keeps its silver from jingling in its lining.
Every clout makes you see silver stars while lining up for more stout.
It never rains but giggles.
Don’t put all your eggs in one basket; just lay them.
The child is farther from the man.
Spare the rod and drill the child (with electric…)
The proof of the pudding is in the ridding
Burn the candle at both ends and end up keeping midnight oil vigil in the igloo.
Do tight-rope walkers eat only string hoppers?
The Piped-Piper pipes a pitiful panegyric to Pan past the precipice…
The « dachshund" trotting out on an outing with its master never fails to take its house - under the same roof - for an airing.
Even a stitch in time cannot save the rhyme in the above run-on line.
Rats tend to desert a ship full of lousy fat cats.
The pot calling the wok : mad !
The wok calling the kettle: cad !
The kettle calling the pan: bad !
The pan calling the cook: lad !
The cook calling the « chef": Dad !
All groggy agog and cooking glad !
A chip of the old computer hard-disk block.
All the World’s a cage.
An eye for an eye multiplies drives; tit for tat and that’s that.
Two and Two make Two times Two.
2 + Too make Two Toos. No?
If you beat about the bush, the Bushes most likely’ll not complain, but if you beat the Bushes, you would have nothing to gain.
A State within a State (l’Etat dans l’Etat), a Nation breeds a single State, yet no Nation or State rules those who secretly usurp the State.
If you went and told it to the Marines every time somebody tells you to, you’ll have precious little left to tell your psychoanalyst, psychiatrist or Priest, but fat chance the Church will close down even if you shut up for good.
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, June 21, 2019
We're having friends for dinner on Saturday
Well we're not actually having them for dinner!
That statement implies that we're cannibalistic
And our list of friends would get thinner!
We drive on a parkway and park on a driveway
This play on words sure can confuse
If teachers taught, why don't preachers praught?
One moose, two meese, how do we choose?
Make amends always seems to be plural
Can't we make one amend I'd like to know!
One tooth, two teeth, why not one booth two beeth?
And why shouldn't you pick your seat at a show?
A slim chance and a fat chance mean the same
But a wise man and a wise guy are opposites
The weather is either hot as hell or cold as hell
I know it's confusing but don't take a fit!
This English language can be oh so confusing
It can drive you to distraction at times
But try to learn Chinese or Mandarin my friend
You'll realize the English language is divine!
© Jack Ellison 2014
The sow beauty queen’s
favorite color is money green
The cloven jaw cutie’s
favorite sound is “cha-ching”
Miss Piggy Lips loves how the cash registers
throughout the land constantly rings
That jade oinkment noise
is a pigmentary salve to her greedy soul
She’s got a glut appetite for mo’ and mo’
Her imperial motto is:
“Mo’ money means mo’ toga rest,
and much less queen bee stress”
This regal swine loves to sit
in her towering pleasure palace pigpen,
and peso whine
and ruble dine
Miss Piggy Lips,
with the Pillsbury hips,
enjoys wallowing in the miry green dough
Mudslinging filthy lucre nods covetously so
Miss Piggy Lips,
with the greasy palm grip,
silver tongue yields coin swallowing squeals
Jade oinkment noise forfeits her unpaid bills
This oral apothecary fatty substance
is pocketbook soothing to the queen Midas soul
Gold pursed lip smacking
is how this triple jowl lady low down dirty roll
Those hog heaven eyes
got them snout gobbled green eggs
gulp hasty safely cracking
Her pigmentary belly rub etiquette
is sop share burp lacking
As those rotund royalties
never piggy bank lessen one lil’ bit
Jade oinkment noise
is very spit pernicious green
Pigmentary salve for the thin-skinned cries
of the profiteering unclean
Dyed paper lust has an emerald sheen
Phat bags under dollar sign eyes
be the makeup blush
for the Oval weight sow beauty queen
Miss Piggy Lips,
with the mint green painted toenails,
she loves the excess gossip that dirty tales sell
Flop sweat sleeping
in her palace penthouse pigsty,
she snore ignore the kingdom’s po’ travails
Wrapping herself in a muddy blanket of lies,
surrounding her obese body
with a methane swarm of toady tongue flies
Miss Piggy Lips,
the dung awful smell
coming from that
jade oinkment perfume trail
is just too much nasal pain to inhale
It’s so sickening to brain fart expel
Fat chance the stench makes anyone well
Is Youth Wasted on the Young?
You think youth’s wasted on the young? My friend, you won’t hear that from me!
Youth’s life’s experiment with living (think ‘a cosmic ‘Soup de Jour’),
not meant to fault, to shame, more seasoned tastes, youth groks that soup’s a goal
and not a purpose ‘God’s Will’ hints should rule our lives for all of time.
God’s Will’s far Grander, and it arches way above the plains of man
whose eye thought earth was flat at first (the sun a chariot of GODS),
till mind divined the earth was sphere (1) and claimed geometry its proof!
The years! Two thousand passed till minds would grok earth’s speck in space, star’s dust
(fat chance the center of all things, God’s pride and joy!) Who owns such crowns?
My vote’s with those who shake with fear folks entertain dark thoughts like this!
Taste blooms, hearts stretch, as child matures. Most ghosts child fears grow pale with kiss
of new day’s light! Each day’s sufficient, finds its fill of smiles, of frowns
though life remains a paint by numbers chore for those who loathe to trust.
‘Aged’ like experience and hope it is a better bet! Aloof
to intuition’s charms, they rarely risk the farm or bank on odds!
“Why play at all” they ask (as if their acts don’t flirt with fire or plan
to walk where angels fear to tread). Are games taboo? Is laughter crime?
Say God is real! Dare we not question what we hear? Does God control
or love that love for God’s our voice? Does doubt mean faith is dead, impure?
Oh, be a child of God who’s free to be a child (and let Grace be!)
Brian Johnston
16th of June in 2022
Poet's Notes:
(1) In pre-Christian days, Arab Mathematicans (Geometricians) were able to prove that the earth was a sphere and even calculated its circumference. Why were Europeans so retarded I wonder?