A yak and a yeti made a bet
To see which one was the hairiest.
The yak was an ox,
And the yeti, no "fox",
Had already won as the scariest.
Neither had the allure
Of the latest coiffure,
They were unkempt and creasy and craggy.
Then a monk passing by
Judged the bet was a tie
For their coats were both equally shaggy.
Well, the yeti and yak were quite taken aback,
Each proclaiming that she was the winner,
Until Hetty the yeti settled the bet
By having al dente lama and yak for her dinner!
The hairiest knee
is waving at me,
another one shows -
and tickles my nose.
As many appear,
I reach for a beer
and watch 'em emerge,
ignoring the urge
to run for my life -
or call for my wife.
My mouth is agape
as spiders escape
and swarm over me.
Oh, help me to flee...
written 11th June for Matt's Bag of Spiders contest
Come old and young, come big, little, wild and tall
Come down to the Legion, join the Hairy Leg Ball
Bring your varicose veins, please do not stall
Bring your grossest. hairiest ugliest furriest legs
To the marvelous, magical, loveliest Hairy Leg Ball
We will have razors to shave off most of your ruff.
We will hold you down hard, so you don’t give us no guff.
We will shave off your fleas, your lice, and all other stuff
If you give us a chance, we might make a swipe at your ****
All are welcome – the feeble, the wobbly, even the buff.
GOOSEBERRIES AND SHARP CREASES
The plumpest, juiciest, hairiest gooseberries
My grandfather grew in a circular bed,
Dead centre of the immaculate lawn.
And blackcurrants under netting,
And a Victoria plum tree in the far corner.
He taught me to hitch up my trousers at the knee
When I sat down, to avoid spoiling the creases.
And to touch the peak of my cap
When I passed a lady in the street.
But he was a sick man;
Tuberculosis and diabetes that would send him
Into long, deep comas.
He would have taught me a whole lot more,
But for that final coma.
1st July 2020
In Loving Memory Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Regina Riddle
The hairiest arm came out of the pot and slapped me.
I slapped it back, angry now, for without a head,
How could the arm do that?
My husband jumped out of his recliner.
What are you making? He asked.
His voice was shaky.
It is always shaky when I am inventing food.
Don’t worry about it, I told him.
A foot came out and kicked me in the head.
Damn Neanderthal soup!
“What IS THAT?” my nosy husband asked, running toward the hallway
Where he hid like a yellow belly.
His voice was soprano.
“It is supper,” I informed him.
“Go away.”
The hairy arm came out and I whacked it hard with my soup spoon.
“I am not eating that!” He whined.
The pot laughed.
“It is Neanderthal Soup,” I informed him, and you will eat it in droves.
Neither of us could eat it actually
As it slapped us unmercifully
knocking the soup spoons out of our hands.