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Robert Macgregor Poem
Brussels sprouts for breakfast, Brussels sprouts for lunch,
Sprouties served with iced champagne to make the perfect brunch!
Boiled and drowned in butter, or juiced to make a punch,
Brussels sprouts the tasty treat that I just love to munch!
Now I love to have a pet around but not a cat or dog,
Don't want no flop-eared bunny, or fat pot bellied hog.
My sprout plant does not need a walk and never gives me fleas,
Just lots of tender Brussels sprouts and I call her Louise!
Sprouties by the bowl full, sprouties by the plate,
I'd like to have a buck for very Brussels sprout I've ate.
When I take my final dirt bath, just so there are no doubts...
Plant me in a steamer trunk well packed in Brussels sprouts.
Copyright © Robert Macgregor | Year Posted 2020
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Robert Macgregor Poem
I cannot find my cheesecloth; where did my cheesecloth go?
Where is it at this moment? I would dearly like to know.
It isn't in the shoe shine kit where oft times I would tuck it,
Nor in the corner by the stove where casually I'd chuck it.
It isn't in the dresser drawer curled up amongst the socks,
My cheesecloth never goes outside, t'is not amidst the phlox!
It isn't over yonder, It can't be over there!
I stare in slack jawed wonder, it isn't anywhere!
How tragically I mourn this cloth, I'll not recover easily.
Where will I find another that comports itself so cheesily?
Oh I'll make do with linen, or wool perhaps or cotton,
But this dear cheesecloth staunch and true can never be forgotten.
So if you have a cheesecloth so soft and strong and sprightly,
You must guard it through the days long hours and keep it by you nightly.
Hold it safe from wolverine, and goat and cloth molester,
For once your cheesecloth's gone for good, you're stuck with polyester!
Copyright © Robert Macgregor | Year Posted 2020
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Robert Macgregor Poem
I love a radish in the springtime!
I love a radish in the fall!
I take my car and park it,
There at the farmer's market,
And buy out every radish stall!
If there’s kohlrabi, I’ll buy a few
A tasty turnip I will not eschew,
But I love a radish when the sun’s up,
And even more when it begins to set,
But at the stroke of midnight
There’s nothing else I will bite
Cept’ for all the radish I can get.
And as for parsnips, they make me larf;
And salsify? My gosh I just might barf!
But I love a radish on my waffles,
As filling in my chocolate radish cake,
Tho’ once, while in Calcutta,
I wolfed down radish butta,
and I never will forget the belly-ache!
Copyright © Robert Macgregor | Year Posted 2020
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Robert Macgregor Poem
Oftimes I'm asked; “What drives you, Bro, to generate such verse,
the bulk of which is awful and the balance, frankly, worse?”
The dark side of reality fueled each chilling ode by Poe,
For Macaulay, Roman heroes made his inkwell overflow.
Ernest Thayer waxed apoplectic when his baseball team fell flat,
and thusways primed he penned the rhyme called “Casey at the Bat”.
Such things as these inspire me not, as time has surely proved.
Sunrise, sunset, and sand and surf all leave me quite unmoved.
All of natures grandeurs no rhyme from me will spawn.
An hour of bliss, a baby’s kiss at best provokes a yawn.
One sight only stirs my muse and brings my blood to boiling,
and renders versifying a great pleasure, not a toiling,
and flings wide creative floodgates that before were tightly shut.
Nothing fans my rhyming flames like Kim Kardashians’ butt!
You may keep the rings of Saturn! No opus will they launch!
But I’ll darken reams of paper re the joys of Kimmies’ haunch.
While some bards wax euphoric at the lunar glow in June,
I pen my rhymes more clearly by the light of KayKay's moon.
She's so sexy!
She's so cute!
I love her steatopygean glute!
Pass my cam! I gotta shoot!
A picture of it,
O yes I love it!
I love that butt.
Call me a mutt!
(Perhaps in rutt)
But I love that titanic,
Oceanic,
and yet uniquely Kardashianic!
Butt!
Like water from a ruptured dam the flood of verse pours forth,
inspired by a southern view of Ms. Kardashian, heading north.
Copyright © Robert Macgregor | Year Posted 2020
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Robert Macgregor Poem
You may shoot a round of golf with your goofy neighbor Rolf,
or smack handballs 'round until your fingers bleed.
You may pump your mountain bike up the peak named after Pike,
and I'm sure we'll all applaud the mighty deed.
You may hunt the antlered moose, you may perforate a goose,
or with bow in hand confront the ring necked pheasant.
But a sportsman's not a hero t'il he fishes in sub-zero
temperatures that lesser men would find unpleasant.
There is nothing quite as nice as to lumber 'cross the ice
when the northern lights are shimmering o'er the pole.
With your tip-ups and your thermos and frost bitten epidermis
and a double headed axe to chop the hole.
On your upturned spacklin' pail there you'll squat through sleet and hail,
and snow so deep that folks can't see your hat.
And some may call you "nuts", and some "a silly putz",
but you're a proud ice fishin' man for all of that.
Though you've never caught a trout and never will, I doubt,
that the prospect of a catch is what will tug ya,
to the frozen lake each season; no you do it for the reason,
it's the only place your spouse won't go to bug ya.
Copyright © Robert Macgregor | Year Posted 2020
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Robert Macgregor Poem
M is for mammoth, big as a barn,
with long woolly hair that's much warmer than yarn.
He's 15 feet tall from his toes to his head,
(much too big to keep in the gardening shed)
He's got really big tusks and he weighs 13 ton,
and he stomps on saber tooth tigers for fun.
He wandered the plains munching bushes and grass,
when a blizzard surprised him and froze his fat mass.
5000 years later when the weather was nice,
it thawed just a bit and he burst from the ice!
The scientists flocked round to skin and de-bone him,
with a bunch right behind who were hankerin' to clone him.
If the cloning succeeds and the Doc's have their way,
We'll be hip deep in mammoths the very next day!
Then us gardening folk can despair of our broccoli,
cause its tough enough dealing with crows by the flockly,
and raccoons by night, and woodchuck by day,
and running 'round chasing Mizz Bunny away.
We all know for a fact that no chicken wire fence,
will keep out a mammoth. (they're just too immense)
Copyright © Robert Macgregor | Year Posted 2020
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Robert Macgregor Poem
Oh hi me hence to the laundromat
Bearing many a malodorous sock
As ofttimes a shepherd will boldly go
To the babbling brook where the clear waters flow
With a line of the wooliest beasties in tow
(Or sometimes merely formed up in a row)
Which comprise his caprinaerious flock
A football jersey, meant for sport
Relegated now to work
A dozen holed and yellowed shorts
Which in a dank corner lurk
Some threadbare jeans and faded tees
A brace of sweatpants lacking knees
And a woolen sweater, rife with fleas
I find I must transport
As manly heart anticipates the finding of a laundromat queen
Perhaps a Vida Guerra clone
Or Jennifer Lawrence all alone
Or Charlotte McKinney, sans cell phone*
But it doesn't seem to be my day, none such are here, I ween.
When it comes to laundromatic love it seems I am quite out of luck,
For the only lass who toils within
Sports globular frame and trebular chin
And more body hair than Rin Tin Tin
Much like Rosanne Barr with a silly grin, had her face impacted a truck.
*So she can't call for help.
Copyright © Robert Macgregor | Year Posted 2020
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Robert Macgregor Poem
Whilst seated upon the commode,
An astronomer, Johann Elert Bode
Found a celestial law
Which had nary a flaw
Which he phrased in the form of an ode.
Each planet you see is removed from the sun
By a distance twice farther than the preceding one
Not a half, I lament
Not three hundred percent
But just twice! (Now isn't this fun?)
Copyright © Robert Macgregor | Year Posted 2020
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Robert Macgregor Poem
Submerged in the depths of my despair,
I ponder: What shade to dye my hair?
Red like April? Black like Cher?
Yellow’d; to match my underwear?
No that’s just silly.
But then, Slick Willy,
Adopted a salt and pepper shade.
It got him elected! It got him laid!
But I’ll eschew his precedent.
I’ve no wish to be President…
A festive blonde hue, I would try it
If but I had some hair, to dye it.
Of my once thick locks remains no follicle.
Nor wisp, nor hank, nor strand, nor molecule.
No colors can the stylist bring,
Oh dyeing’s not an easy thing.
Copyright © Robert Macgregor | Year Posted 2021
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Robert Macgregor Poem
John Holmes is dead, but I have heard it said,
He used to walk the nude beach getting tanned,
He'd shoot the crowd a moon,
Then amble 'cross each dune,
Behind him leaving three tracks in the sand.
Poor John is dead, a casket for his bed,
But rigor mortis settled in his hose,
In the lid we'll bore a hole,
And through it thread his pole,
Or else we'll never get the danged thing closed.
Copyright © Robert Macgregor | Year Posted 2021
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