Satire
Doing Sweeties Chores
7-9-2016
My wif no longer cuts the grass
And goat jus died from eatin glass
Her old string trimmer is most gone
She’s upen left so I’m livin alone
Our washing machine it had no cord
I think she named it MY scrub board
The iron she left had the name of sad
The wurst appliance she’d ever had
I feed the chickens and slop the hog
And at night I sleep with my ole dog
I’m now in bed most nights by dark
I lay and listen to the call of a lark
So now I’m eatin from paper plates
Clipping qupons and hunting rebates
As I hang my washin outside to dry
I think of her leavin and wonder why?
I gave her stuff and promised more
For she’d werk jus like a stevedore
Since she left things are sure rundown
ifen she’d return I’d taker to town
Categories:
stevedore, funny, satire,
Form: Lyric
On the edge of barren, corroded shore
Where sailors ply their trade no more
No tenured harbor gallant fleets to moor,
or docks to greet restless crew, strident commodore
No expansive peers into the mighty ocean waves bore,
or rustic wharves to accompany the dank decor
Gone are the tradesmen whose skilled hands weathered ships did restore,
and the tawny, burly arms of the itinerant, shuffling stevedore
No inquisitive merchants the cargo's value to score
Yet the drifting currents grainy sketches still store
In the eerie winds the rasping breaths of stevedores soar
Through stormy gales, commands of disembarking captain's roar
Timeless silhouettes of wafting masts hover o'er ocean floor
Apparitions of ruddy sailors from briny mists pour
Out of the steamy fog, pirate ghosts still yell encore
From foaming waves, drunken sailors one more drought implore
Categories:
stevedore, age, beach, boat, career,
Form: Rhyme