Was the new grave pulling his leg,
shaking the particles on edge,
using green wind so close to ledge,
an open invite without hedge?
Was the voice, down under, his own?
Could it levitate, draw one back,
and call to his brother from black,
as he’d become a ghost off track?
Haunting, unsettling, not subtle.
Do surrounding stones shriek, unmask?
Does spookiness take him to task?
For help, the fallen has to ask.
Daunting, the shadows, seem to claw,
as a brother must find dug hole.
It’s much too soon to take his soul,
but still sooner, in fact, bell’s toll.
This poem is for Pagunda Zahid who asked me
Write a poem before he is reluctantly, thrown out,
A spoiled brat who’s lost his best teddy,
Sure he’s plotting to make trouble already,
An impolite, jealous, trouble making annoying fool,
Trying his hardest to overthrow the winner, not cool.
Accusing the election of being fraudulent, how dare he
Lost his balls, think his marbles have also shrunk to a pea,
Has many rallies where nobody wears a mask
Surely the law should take him to task,
Depression and anger has been said to affect a winkie
The senate might have to keep excusing him to take a tinkie!
He had the charm, tattoos on each arm,
a Zapata moustache and a pony.
Skin tight blue jeans, ripped at the seams,
(that showed off his prize polony).
A stud in each ear, he wreaked of stale beer,
when he smiled he showed three teeth of gold.
His car was a Beamer, a boy racer screamer,
that had the whiff of old mold.
He smoked like a chimley, and, through a glass, dimly,
he thought that he looked quite a catch.
With his wandering eye and naked lady tie,
and lime green socks to match.
If anyone would ask, or take him to task,
his lip, to a sneer, would curl.
And, with a tear in his eye, he would wistfully ask why,
he had everything but the girl?
Happy Donnie with hair of tawny
Delivering his speech quite bonnie
Critics take him to task
For not wearing a mask
Less love than for even old Ronnie
How To Look Busy at Work
By Elton Camp
When quitting time is still an hour away
If you don’t want to work any more that day
There’s a neat little trick I learned long ago
That lets you goof off but nobody will know
Just walk around, occasionally stop and stand
Be certain you have a clipboard in your hand
Then rove your eyes through the office all around
Stop to write while you shake your head & frown
Nobody will question an activity that’s so grim
Out of fear that you may be writing about them
What you’re doing, even your super won’t ask
He suspects his boss is gonna take him to task
Remember occasionally to put a new page on top
Attempts to look over your shoulder that’ll stop
They all suspect that, for the CEO, you’re a rat
So are afraid to make you mad because of that
When a colleague isn’t called in, that’s a relief
And that you were working increases his belief
Each will think that you did an excellent job
As you didn’t report him, but some other slob
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