Those who are tough lived long enough
(from puerile juvenile to senile immobile)
to become on the world's bum a boil
in the very end my good friend old chum
will finally shuffle off their mortal coil
go to the dogs then pop their clogs
come to some harm and buy the farm
get a leg out check out peg out
or as bad luck would have it kick the bucket
when they give up the ghost and they're toast
if they were an eskimo
we'd sit them out on the ice and snow
but we're humane we do maintain
ne'er more to roam we condemn them
for life to an old folks' home
where the infirm may wither and dither
hanging around dwindling down
until the day they f-fade away
(With apologies to William Shakespeare)
Shall I compare thee to a box of frogs
for inasmuch you seem to be as mad,
you've really let your looks go to the dogs
your face would look quite good worn by your Dad.
Your armpit hair blossoms forth like a hedge,
a thicket bursting out atop your vest,
from deep within each summer, sparrows fledge,
your muffin tops a fine home for their nests.
At parties you can lighten up a room
if only from the window you would shift,
you stand, hitch hiking as the traffic zooms
hoping someone will give your chins a lift.
For beauty is skin deep I have no doubt,
in which case I'm afraid you're inside out.
(Love poem #2 to follow)
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