Good job at looking after the mob,
Sheltering them from the fog,
Keeping them off the grog,
For giving them opportunities to brag,
For stimulating their brain with tricks from a bag,
For offering up laughter with a gag,
And putting thought into the food for the mob.
Good job Bob.
There once was a snake
Whose name was Jake
He slithered and slid
And kept well hid
But had a bad encounter with a rake.
He went to jail
For killing a snail
Committed the crime
So he served his time
And lived to tell the tale.
He had too much grog
And got it on with a frog
But was later found
Living deep underground
Far away in a dirty old bog.
The grueling skies are darkened now
as heavy clouds clutch barren ground
through thickened fog there lies a bog
a silent menace, foreboding grog.
Yet now, against my wiser will
I slog, to view the slimy pit
that locks the suffocating water tight
no ripples flow, no fresh respite.
A strange attraction draws me in
to meld within this cursed lip of spite
it carries me down and out of sight
to solemn end, to depth of night.
Rum do,
Drunk crew.
9 / 30 / 2025.
A strange disease is rolling coast to coast
and leaves its victims on their knees in fog.
The weaker mind feels the affliction most;
next, those with an affinity for grog.
Some say a brain worm fled the campaign trail;
some say that it arose from rotting meat.
The latter likely seems an old wives’ tale;
what’s true: synaptic clefts are incomplete.
Although causation’s not precisely known,
research identified a common thread.
The circuits in the retina are blown;
instead of orange, all are seeing red.
For those who trust their government and seek
a vax, one should be ready late next week.
.
that's the skull and
well
one bone
me lady
never yer mind wench
over that chaser
fer the crew come up from
swill'n that ol' grog
"edvard"
shhhh yourz
woman
them thar thicker toes
they can hear the crow drop'nz
on deck in the gale
shhh
"ow'kay"
.
'tiz
not mine dialect
'tiz the thick this
coffee
past mine lips
it slid
thick
slowly
unto the back uv
that thar
dangly thing
in my throat
too thick to
spit
i choked
yarrrr
at three bucks
the cup
no room for
cheeze cake
mine gullet
stuffed to mine teeth
the coffee
the waitress
the pitch
gulp
bitumen
greasy grog
spoon
yuck
Sipping his warm tasty gnome grog in the snow
We see troll’s size fourteen feet and we laugh at his ugly toe
Why doesn’t he wear shoes or boots someone says.
Too warm blooded me thinks, says my cousin Inez.
Freddie, tipsy, and it showed
Freddie lived across the road
Freddie knew she would explode
Freddie was a big, fat toad
Frannie waited in the bog
Frannie worried ‘bout the fog
Freddie, out and drinking grog
Frannie was a fretful frog
Freddie thought he had the jump
Freddie launched off from the stump
Driver didn’t hear the thump
Now poor Freddie’s not so plump
The puppet pranced
The strings frayed
A jackass brayed
As poppin’ hoppys
Sat and rose
In ballet dance
Of well browned nose
Applause and “clapture”
of Stockholm rapture
A mocking strut
Of failing stature
Overseers jaundiced eyes
Pundits seeking pulitz prize
Dissect the metaphoric frog
Wash it down with pints of grog
Amidst the spin of liars din
They shout pick me let’s ride again
Update quickly twitter feeds
Sating lustful twitter needs
Condense a two hour monologue
Into a twenty-five word blog
Check the facts, don’t be a chump
It’s just another “word soup” dump
John G. Lawless
©2/8/2023
the Fiddler played and sang a tune
all the while the sun became moon
Sir Frog was dancing
and sometimes prancing
but then the music died too soon
“Fiddler,” cried Frog, “why do you stop?
I’m still in mindful mood to hop!”
Fiddler said, “Sir Frog,
bring me honey grog
and I’ll play the night till you drop!”
Cold sunken ground does not deny the heat of death
Nor pumpkins dull the horror of this hallowed eve
of ghoulish creatures basking in the fetid breath
condemned to roam together yet alone to grieve.
They rise upon this hallowed eve to dance in time
Tip the tarnished mug of grog as they did before
Their skeletons a timpani, a windblown chime
Clatter in the darkness of this night they abhor.
They torment passing souls on this their evil night
Reaching in agony to touch the edge of life
Moving as shadowed vapors in and out of sight
Soldiers denied sad honor of the drum and fife.
As distant church bells chime to mark the break of dawn
They sink into the darkness from which they were drawn.
John G. Lawless
©10/25/2022
In the world's biggest collection
of pogs, there is not one pog
As beautiful as my dog
Nor has there ever been a hog
As beautiful as my dog
Nor e'er a frog upon its log
Not even its youngest pollywog
As comely as my dog.
And so I make my dog eggnog
I write about her in my blog
I take her with me when I jog
Drunk on grog, all agog,
Lost in fog, slipped a cog,
I snuck into the synagogue
With my beautiful dog.
adolescent tadpoles
guzzle grog,
get hiccups, s-t-r-e-t-c-h
to full-grown frogs
Popping out of pictures, pulling swords from stone,
Hunting with your coon dogs, shipwrecked all alone,
Rafting down the river, whitewashing a fence,
Balloons on Krakatoa, leagues under suspense,
Milo and his watchdog, Charlie’s ticket’s gold,
Meg and Charles go tessering, Lost Boys, never old,
Wizards, dwarves, and hobbits, James’ giant fruit,
Wilbur, Fern, and Charlotte, Belle’s enchanted brute,
Heartbreak with a yearling, a big old yellow dog,
Friends Mole and Rat and Toad, islands, treasure, grog,
Gardens full of secrets, the clever family Swiss:
Glorious great stories, just too good to miss.
Books promote imagination, candy for the mind,
Afternoons spent on the page leave the world behind.
Reading with my grandkids, adventure tales galore,
And when they finish all of these, I know of plenty more.
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