This page includes several of the humorous ballads/poems I have written to date. Many of them are derived from people I have known and/or stories I have heard. Some I just made up. Those that have been published are indicated.

I Hope You Enjoy Them

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The Plot (New Classic Poems … May 2005)

Mission Impossible

Birthday Surprise (New Classic Poems … May 2005)

The Truth Of It Is (New Classic Poems … May 2005)

The Triple Filter Test

The Construction Bastards

Mission Impossible

While walking on the beach one day on Oregon's north coast,

A man, while lost in meditation tripped and fell -- almost.

This woke him from his reverie. He stopped and looked around

at weathered wood and withered weed all strewn out on the ground.

Beside his foot, a glassy lump had nearly caused his fall.

Half-buried in the sand, an urn with soiled and murky pall.

He bent to see just what it was. He brushed away the sand.

He pulled it free, then heard a voice. "Your wish is my command."

He dropped the urn, and turned to see a turbaned ghostly shroud.

"I thank you friend for freeing me." A voice came from the cloud.

"For that I'll grant you any wish. Just one though, I'm afraid.

Ask any thing your heart desires. You then, will be repaid."

Surprised and somewhat startled, the man cowered, and then fell.

The Genie laughed. "So what's your wish? You don't have time to dwell."

He picked himself up off the ground, not sure just what to say.

Was this a trick, or was this real? Was this his lucky day?

"Okay," he said. "I'll play your game. Here's something you can try.

Hawaii's where I want to go, but I'm afraid to fly.

So build a bridge from here to there. To get there I can drive.

That is my wish, and your command. It's yours now to contrive."

The Genie looked away awhile, then turned and said, "I can't.

With all the wisdom that I have, this wish I cannot grant.

Concrete and steel could not be found, enough to build this span.

Why don't you wish the normal things? The ones I know I can."

"All right," he said. "I have one more. I've yearned this all my life.

For more than thirty years I've tried to understand my wife.

In fact I've never figured out the things that women think.

So that's my wish; to understand this age-old missing link."

The Genie turned away again; his hands raised in the air.

He chanted loud, in foreign tongue. He wailed and pulled his hair.

Then turning back, in pleading voice, said, "Master, I implore.

That bridge you want? What would you like? Two driving lanes or four?"

The Plot

I've come to notice lately that around me things have changed.

I'm not sure when it happened, but I find it very strange

that every time I take a walk, it's uphill all the way,

and seems to be much farther than it was just yesterday.

They're building stairways steeper now than those they used to build.

My groceries seem much heavier, though bags are but half-filled.

And someone's hiding things of mine. They're always going astray.

Then strangely they show up again, within one or two days.

Why am I always stiff and sore? This thing I can't explain.

Perhaps the kinds of food I eat are causing me this pain?

Or maybe it's the water, full of chemicals and stuff?

I'm taking twenty pills a day. Maybe that's not enough?

You know the collar labels that are sewn inside our shirts?

Well, mine now all read size eighteen. The truth of it sure hurts.

A fifteen would still fit my neck, however I must face

the fact that it would never fit around my bulging waist.

I've always been a stubborn sort. I don't always conform,

but now I'm more congenial, or so I am informed.

Not true. My nodding head is not a sign that I agree.

My glasses have five lenses, and I'm scanning just to see.

Seems bathroom scales are now being made with much less quality.

I don't believe the number on the dial that I see.

I'd call the factory if I could, and tell them what I think,

but I can't read the phone book with its tiny printed ink.

Most people seem much younger than I was when at their age?

I'm sure that I was more mature when I was at that stage.

Yet, friends of mine who've always been the same age as I am,

seem older now, and frailer; some no longer give a damn.

I saw an old friend just last week. She'd aged, her pallor gray.

She did not recognize me, and she looked the other way.

This morning as I washed my face, the mirror looked back at me.

It seems that mirrors are not being made the way they used to be.

I think I know what's happening. I've got it figured out.

There's not too much that I can do. Of that I have no doubt.

Long life has schemed against me; a conspiracy; a plot.

It beats the other option though, so I don't want it stopped.

The Match

Now Bill McDuff and Pete McGee had been good friends for years.

They'd chase golf balls around the course then go have a few beers.

Their clubhouse talk was all about the great shots that they'd made;

the putts just missed; who'd had the luck. The loser always paid

One day in jest, McDuff said to the boys around the table,

"You might agree that McGee's game, is something of a fable.

I don't know quite what game he plays. It's not golf though," he sighed.

"The foot wedges he likes to use do wonders for bad lies"

The boys all had a laugh at this. They knew that this was fact.

"McDuff," said Pete, "they say a pot can't call a kettle black.

We've all watched you set up your ball wherever it might be.

At least when on the fairway, I have never used a tee."

And on it went for several pints with barbs, and taunts, and shots,

until McDuff said "That's enough! You've hit a tender spot.

McGee, I've got a hundred bucks. A game we're going to play."

"You're on'" said Pete. "We'll play the ball where it lies all the way.

Next day at noon with players poised, the match was set to start.

So they could see each other's shots they'd use a power cart.

McGee stepped up and teed his ball; the first ball of the round.

With mighty swing and forceful stroke, he pushed it out of bounds.

McDuff drove well; short club to green. Two putts gave him a par.

"Bad luck," he chuckled, knowing things were going well thus far.

Things didn't change. By number nine McDuff was up by five.

He won the next two holes as well. The match now just alive.

On number twelve his drive was pure. Out long and straight it went.

McGee's ball sliced to the cart path, And sat on hard cement.

Complacently, McDuff declared, "So move it, I don't care.

The rules allow you some relief, but me ... I'd play from there."

McGee knew this was his last chance, and sweat formed on his brow.

McDuff was cool. He walked away. It hardly mattered now.

He went to where his own ball lay, then looked back just in time

to see McGee's first practice swing, and hear a rasping grind.

McGee had one more up his sleeve. This thought had him inspired.

With scrape and grate, his practice swing brought sparks, and rain of fire.

Another practice, then his shot. The ball rose from the blaze.

It hit the green, rolled in the hole. He stood there quite amazed.

He drove back to 'the Duffer'. He had had a bit of luck.

He thought there was a chance now to not lose his hundred bucks.

McDuff looked up. "Good Shot," he said. "What did you use? Which stick?"

McGee grinned back, "Oh, one of yours. I think it was your six."

McDuff was mad. He lost his cool; the hole; then all the rest.

The match was drawn and no doubt, that was surely for the best.

That night at home, with cloth and stone, McGee shined up his six.

He'd used his club to play that shot. 'The Duffer' had been tricked.

The Truth Of It Is

(An episode in one of life's greatest adventures ... marriage)

A painted moon hung full and high, it's blush subdued, yet bright.
A darkened car, with headlights blurred, rushed through the lonely night.
The occupants, myself, my wife, were speaking of our speed.
Upset, she griped, "Please slow it down. There isn't any need."

I pushed the pedal even more. "Why don't you just relax?"
I'm doing fine, and I'm just driving slightly more than max."
The party had been fun that night, and I was feeling fine.
Why did she have to spoil it now? Why did she have to whine?

As I looked in my rear view mirror, I saw some flashing lights.
"That's great," I said. "Here come the cops." The siren pierced the night.
"I told you so. You've done it now," her scold, more like a wail.
"We can't afford a ticket. Worse, they might throw you in jail."

I pulled onto the shoulder with the police car just behind.
How would I get out of this mess? Then something came to mind.
I would deny, plead ignorance. I couldn't help but smile.
I thought I might just pull this off if I could use some guile.

The officer came to our car. I rolled my window down.
"What's up?" I asked. "Is something wrong?" He looked at me and frowned.
"I'll need to see your license, and your registration please."
"No problem," I responded. I was trying to seem at ease.

The cop looked at his paperwork, then took it to his car.
I turned, looked at my wife, and said, "I'm doing fine so far."
With manner stern, the cop returned. "You were going much too fast.
Your speed was over ninety when your vehicle went past."

"That's crazy. There's no way," I said. "You've made a big mistake.
I'm always careful of my speed. The law, I never break."
My wife leaned forward, "What a line. You always drive too fast.
I've told you that a hundred times. Your luck's run out at last."

I couldn't quite believe my ears. She was out of control.
The cop had heard the whole thing, just when I'd been on a roll.
"Excuse me. Let me handle this," I snapped back at my wife.
"Just sit back please, and shut your mouth." My words cut like a knife

The officer looked in the car. His flashlight's beam was bright.
"I see you have no seatbelt on. For that, I too must cite."
"I must have just removed it, Sir," more sheepishly this time.
"I swear. I always wear my belt." I buckled up in mime.

"Hah, what a joke," my wife spoke up. "You never wear your belt.
When I ask you to buckle up, you say it leaves a welt."
"That's it, you stupid woman! We will settle this at home.
Why can't you keep your big trap shut?" My mouth began to foam.

The cop then motioned, "S'cuse me Mamm, will you please step outside.
You wait here Sir. We won't be long." When out, the policeman pried.
"Are you all right? If you would like, I'll throw him in the clink."
"No, I'll be fine. He's harmless. He's just had too much to drink."

Sharing

There are some things that really are not what they seem to be.

We sometimes make assumptions based on what we think we see.

This happened to me recently; remembered with a smile,

how much our way of life has changed in just a little while.

I'd gone out for a walk one day, and felt the need to eat.

A Golden Arches beckoned me to give myself a treat.

I ordered a Big Mac and Fries, then sat down eagerly.

Nearby a man and woman sat. They were quite elderly.

I noticed they had just one tray, with one meal for the two.

A quarter-pounder, fries and drink, with two straws to sip through.

I watched him cut the hamburger into two equal shares,

then count the fries and give to her one half of what was theirs.

The old man then began to eat from his side of the tray.

The woman smiled, and watched him dine. Not one word did she say.

I must say that I felt quite bad that it had come to that.

I didn't think they did this just to keep from getting fat.

I'd heard that many seniors had a tough time getting by.

The cost of living had, in fact, near bled their pensions dry.

I turned to him and asked if I might buy another meal.

That way they both would have their own, and better I would feel.

"I thank you son, but we're just fine. We've been wed fifty years.

Most everything is shared with us. It's not what it appears."

" But what of you?" I looked at her. "Are you not going to eat?"

"Oh yes, I will," she smiled and said. "When he's done with our teeth."

Semantix

Young Jamie'd been a father now for just about five years.

His wife and he had done quite well through baby's joy and tears.

His 'Daddy's girl' was growing fast. She'd soon be going to school.

He answered all her questions, and he told her all the rules.

One day as he was sitting back in front of the TV,

his little girl came up to him and asked quite solemnly,

"So Daddy, what's this thing called sex? I don't know this new name."

He swallowed hard, then haltingly began to best explain.

He spoke of birds and bees and things, and from where babies come.

He wanted her to understand, although she was quite young.

"But tell me why you want to know?" he asked. She looked perplexed.

"Cause Mommy said that dinner would be in just a few 'secs'."

The Excuse

Now Clancey McGinty loved to play golf. A duffer he was, so to speak.

On Sundays he'd play; his schedule was such that he'd only get one game a week.

At 7:00 a.m. he'd arrive at the course, hit some balls then putt for a while.

His regular tee time was set up for 8:00. The Pro-Shop had placed it on file.

It would take him four hours to circuit the course. He usually was finished by noon.

Before heading home he'd have lunch and a beer. He always sang the same tune.

His routine was just that; it was always the same. He'd arrive home just after One,

Say hello to his wife, fall asleep in his chair, as his game in his mind was rerun.

There was cause for concern on the part of his wife when one Sunday he broke this routine.

When he didn't show up as the clock went by One, she assumed he was somewhere between.

By Two she was worried. He should have been home. Delayed, he would surely have called.

By Three she was frantic. Where could he be? Her worst fears could not be forestalled.

By Four her concern had turned into ire, upset by Clancey's neglect.

Just like a man to not think of his wife when a call would affirm his respect.

When McGinty walked in at Five p.m. with a sheepish grin on his face,

He faced a tirade that he could not evade. No doubt he was not in her grace.

When she finally calmed down, she quietly asked, "Where in the world have you been?"

Clancey looked up, his palms raised in front, "My Dear, things are not what they seem.

I'm sorry I didn't think to phone home. I won't use sweet words to cajole.

The strangest thing happened today. I'm afraid things got out of control."

"I'd just finished lunch. The boys had all left. was drinking the last of my beer,

When a woman came by and sat by my side; a good-looking redhead, I fear.

She asked me to tell her what golf was about, and what was the point of the game.

She had no idea; she wanted to learn; to her golf was only a name."

"So we talked for a while of the game and its guile, and why it was such an attraction.

I was flattered that she had asked me for help. Her good looks were quite a distraction.

At some point she asked me if I wouldn't mind, would I teach her to hit a golf ball?

So we went to the range for some knowledge exchange; it seemed she was truly enthralled."

"She wanted to buy me a drink, she declared, for my time, and my expert advice.

She wanted to offer me something, she said, and a beer hardly seemed to suffice.

So we went back inside. I accepted the bribe, then a look of alarm crossed her face.

She'd missed her ride home, she exclaimed with a gasp. Could I give her a ride to her place?"

"It seemed to me that I'd played a small part in her missing her chance to get home,

So I told her I could, and I should, so I would. I'd prefer it to driving alone.

When we got to her place, she invited me up to share with her one more cool drink.

The day had been hot. I was already late. I wasn't quite sure what to think."

"She made me a drink. We sat on her couch. 'Would you like something else,' she then said.

I'll not lie to you, Dear; I'm sorry to say that I soon found myself in her bed."

"In your dreams," said his wife, with a scowl on her face. "Enough of your lying, and tricks.

Why don't you just tell me the truth, and admit that you played thirty-six."

The Lesson

Jaques' job took everything he had. Sometimes he would get stressed.

And when he did, he'd lose his edge. He'd not be at his best.

He'd need to rest, but didn't like to lounge, or stay in bed.

"Why don't you get some exercise? Go golfing," a friend said.

"Why not," he thought. "It had been years since he'd last played the game.

And then, he had been lousy. It was not his claim to fame

So there he was, about to hit his ball from the first tee,

When came a man with friendly smile. He seemed most neighborly.

"I'm Pat McBaird," the man declared. "May I join you today?"

"Why don't you go ahead instead?" Jaques said, somewhat dismayed.

"I'm really quite a hacker. I am sure I'll hold you back."

"Let's play," said Pat, "and if you wish, I'll help you with the knack."

They hit their balls; Jaques' low and short, Pat's high and straight and long.

Jaques scuffed his next, his third as well. Each time something went wrong.

He scored an eight. "Not bad," said Pat. "Let's work on this a while.

"I think that I can fix your swing, and help you with your style."

They made their way around the course. Each hole, Pat offered tips.

By number six, Jaques' stance was fixed; his posture, and his grip.

By number nine, his swing looked fine, with tempo, style, and grace.

By number twelve, his chipping and his short game were in place.

They worked on putting for a while. It's where most hackers choke.

Pat showed him how to read the green; the slow and easy stroke.

Jaques birdied on the eighteenth hole, and as they left the green,

he said "Thanks Pat, your teaching is the best I've ever seen."

As they shook hands, Pat smiled at him. "There's something you should know.

This lesson cost you eighty bucks. You see ... I'm a 'Golf Pro'."

Jaques scowled then smiled, "I'm too a Pro. I work at Church St. Stephen.

Come visit sometime. Bring your folks. I'll wed them. We'll be even."

The Stone

Many people had come to Sidney's wake. His casket stood splendid in view.

As they lined up to speak, each offered a toast to help their memories renew.

His banker, his lawyer, accountant as well; they all had good things to say.

And well they should, for the final estate would surely be making their day.

By the time they were through, there wouldn't be much left for Sidney's good wife.

The last few years Sidney's business had seen financial problems and strife.

To make it work he'd had to sell the house, the cars, and the boat.

Whatever was left would go to pay bills. Tillie would sure be cleaned out.

But the party was on. The best of the year. He'd asked that it happen this way.

Tillie had set the whole thing up. She'd made sure that he had this big day.

People had come from near and far to pay their last respects.

Most invited, others not. Some crashed it, I suspect.

"What a wonderful man my husband was," Tillie raised her glass of red wine.

"I think of Dear Sidney, with a lump in my throat; a gentle man, thoughtful, and kind.

Close to the end I was called to his bed, and he whispered to me his last words."

"Three wishes I have. I've written them down." His voice could hardly be heard.

He handed her three thick envelopes. "These wishes to you I behest.

Please carry them out just as I've said, and peacefully then I will rest."

She took all three of them from his hand, and promised his will would be done.

And then with a smile, he left this world. She opened Envelope One.

"Envelope One contained ten thousand bucks, with a note," she said with a sigh.

"Buy me a casket that's sound and well sealed, so alone I may putrefy.

I don't want worms and other such things to be able to make their way in."

"And there it stands folks, hermetically sealed." The coffin was made of thick tin.

"Envelope Two contained one hundred grand, with a note," she said with a smile.

"Spare no expense when planning my wake. You won't have to reconcile."

"So strike up the band and swig back your drinks, but remember why you are here.

This money's been spent for your enjoyment, so to Sydney let's raise up a cheer."

"Envelope three contained one million bucks, and a note that with you I now share.

"Buy me a stone to sit oer my head. Buy one for yourself if you dare."

" Well you've all seen his stone. Do you want to see mine?" She raised her left hand in the air.

And showed them her ring of diamonds and gold. "I think that my stone I will wear."

The Final Bet

Now this is the story of partners and friends, Johnny and Sam were their names.

Best friends they'd been since boys in school. Their lives had progressed much the same.

High School, then college, marriage, then kids. Their law firm was much in demand.

For thirty-five years they'd stood at the bar, retiring at sixty as planned.

From the time they were kids they'd loved to play golf, but they'd loved to bet even more.

They always gave each other a match. Their skills much the same, and their scores

Neither made money no matter the bet; a dollar, a five, or a fin.

At the end of each year a tally would show they'd both had their fair share of wins.

When they finally retired it didn't change much. It just gave them more time to play.

The bet was the thing that turned these guys on. Their goal was the other would pay.

As they got older their scores went up too, but still, they kept the same pace.

No matter how much it hurt when they played, they always wore their game face.

One day they agreed that they'd had enough. They'd play golf just one more time.

When this game was done they'd hang up their clubs. To this they were surely resigned.

This would be it; one game to decide which one of these two was the best,

With one final bet of one thousand bucks; enough so their nerves it would test.

For this final game, two caddies they'd use to carry the clubs and keep score.

Johnny and Sam would use a golf cart. They rarely walked anymore.

On One, Two, and Three, Sam took three fives. Johnny played these with three fours.

At the turn Sam was forty, John thirty-nine; one stroke between their two scores.

On Ten and Eleven, Sam's total was seven. John had some trouble; took nine.

On Twelve John played well, and beat Sam by two. John was ahead, and felt fine.

On number Fourteen, Sam made up the stroke. By Sixteen the lead he'd reclaimed,

but as they walked up to the tee at Eighteen, their scores were exactly the same.

Both of them hit good drives on Eighteen, a par five with trees on the right.

Sam's second shot landed short of the green; John's, in the woods, out of sight.

They went to the trees. Sam helped him look for a while, then walked to his ball.

John and his caddie searched a bit more. Would a lost ball be Johnny's downfall?

Sam chipped his ball up on to the green. It stopped one foot from the cup.

He smiled; feeling good; a tap in for bird. Too bad about Johnny's bad luck.

"I found it," yelled John. "I just found my ball, and I've even got a good shot."

"So hit it then," Sam hooted right back. Give it the best that you've got."

John looked at his line, then set up on the ball. Two branches he must go between.

He swung, the ball rose, it hit the top branch, caromed up, flew the trap to the green.

It ran to the hole, hit the pin and dropped in. Sam grimaced. He knew that he'd lost it.

He turned to his caddie. "I can't say a word. I've got his lost ball in my pocket."

Home Work

It had been a long day, and John was worn out. He pulled the car into the drive.

He'd left that morning just before six, and now it was just after five.

He had a tough job; lots of pressure and stress, dealing with clients all day.

When he got home at night, he liked to relax in his chair in his usual way.

The first thing he saw as he shut off the car was a bike in the garage, on the floor.

His wife's car was parked outside in the drive, with a wide open passenger door.

His youngest child climbed out, on the run. She was wearing pajamas it seemed.

"Hooray," she cried, as she came to his car. "It's Daddy," she loudly screamed.

Then the other two kids, in pajamas as well, all covered in mud, head to toe,

came from the house in a race for their Dad, both crying their sad tales of woe.

They'd had a big fight, and the youngest was hurt. The other declaring no blame.

They both talked at once; one through her tears; their stories were not quite the same.

John looked around. The yard was a mess. There were empty food wrappers and such

strewn everywhere. His flower garden crushed; the one he had prided so much.

"Be quiet," he yelled! "What's going on? Where's your mother?" He had a bad feeling.

He ran to the house, front door open wide; charged in. His senses were reeling.

Inside the front entry he looked all around. Chaos and mayhem in reign.

An open juice bottle lay on the floor. On the carpet a scarlet red stain.

In the front room the TV was blaring. The stereo turned up as well.

Toys and kid's clothes were strewn all around. He detected a rather ripe smell.

Where was his wife? There wasn't a sign. He loudly called out her name.

He went to the kitchen, the source of the smell. The odor was pungent and game.

Dirty dishes in sink; counters spilling with food; a gaping wide open fridge door,

and a present from Bowser, their three month old pup, in a putrid, brown pile on the floor.

He leapt over the dog as he ran up the stairs. He was frantic to locate his wife.

Perhaps she was ill, or had fallen, or worse. He was worrying now for her life.

He tripped on some toys in the hallway up stairs, fell into their bedroom door.

"Hi," said his wife, looking up from her book, as he picked himself up off the floor.

Bewildered, he asked, "What's going on?" In pajamas, she lounged in their bed.

"Not much," she replied. "How was your day?" she asked with a smile, and then said,

"You know every day when you come home from work and ask, "What did you do today?""

"Well today I didn't do any of it. Maybe now you'll believe what I say."

The Strangest Thing

I know this sounds strange, and hard to believe, but I ask that you please hear me out.

The story is true, and when I am through I hope I've removed any doubt.

My tale begins simply enough. I was tired. I'd been working quite hard.

So I went to my Club for a quick round of golf. I'd finish my work afterward.

There was no one around so I played by myself; a good chance to work on my game.

I wish now that someone had been there with me. What happened is hard to explain.

I'd finished Hole One, was approaching on Two, when a frog jumped up near my ball.

I paid no attention, took out my wedge. "Ribbit, Nine," said the frog with a drawl.

No way, I thought; too close for a nine. "Ribbit, Nine," said the frog once again.

"Okay," I said. "I'll give it a try," and I hit it right up by the pin.

"Wow," I exclaimed, "You sure know your stuff." I putted it in for a bird.

"Was that just good luck? Can you do it again? What club should I use on the third?"

"Ribbit, Three Wood," the frog replied. Once more not the club I'd have picked.

I swung at the ball. It landed the green, then rolled right on up to the stick.

It almost stopped, but changed its mind, then dropped in the cup for an 'Ace'.

What could I say; this was my lucky day; a talking frog not commonplace.

And so the game went; the frog picked the clubs; I would then make the shot.

When finished my score was a record for sure, thanks to my bloat-throat mascot.

"Thanks very much. What else can you do?" I turned to the frog and asked.

"Ribbit, Las Vegas," the frog replied. "Ribbit, Casino," it gasped.

The frog then hopped up into my hand. "Ribbit, Let's go," it said.

So we went to the airport and got on a plane. It rode in my bag overhead.

When we arrived we went to the Strip. "Ribbit, Mirage," it declared.

"Ribbit, Roulette; Ribbit, Three Grand; Ribbit, Black Six, if you dare.

A Sucker's bet, the odds were high. The chance of a win not good.

Three Grand was a lot. I had to have faith. I hoped I'd not misunderstood.

So I made the bet; the whirling wheel spun, and lo, when it stopped I had won.

A man came by and gave me a cheque, when I told him that I was done

When the frog and I got up to my room, I was still somewhat tongue-tied.

"What can I do to repay you," I asked? "Ribbit, Kiss Me," it replied.

I did, and the frog transformed to a girl, naked, her youth in full bloom.

And Your Honor, that's how this girl, but fifteen, was up there that night, in my room.

The Golden Rule

Now Mary was a joyful girl, a smile was always near.

Her voice was like a song in spring, with lilt, and crystal clear.

She went to church each Sunday morn, sang in the choir as well.

At school the Nuns all fancied her. They called her Evangelle.

They thought she was an angel sent down here to the earth.

Her future had been mapped, it seemed, from the moment of her birth.

She planned to be a Sister too, when she was fully-grown,

A Bride of Christ would be her life; since childhood she had known.

At eighteen years, arrangements made; her schooling now complete,

with bag in hand, and not much else, she came to Convent gate,

They welcomed her and took her to her room, cold, stark, and bare.

A single bed, a table; she could only stand and stare.

When called to see the leader of these quiet, gentle folk,

she noticed that the Sisters here rarely ever spoke.

The leader was called Mother. Her eyes were soft; she smiled.

"Welcome to our home," she said. "Welcome here my child."

"Thank you Mum, I was wondering if ... " Mary tried to say.

"Remember child," the Mother said, "you're here to learn and pray.

While cloistered in this Convent silence is the golden rule.

There's little need to speak at all inside the vestibule."

"Off you go young Novice, and remember not a word.

Come back and see me in one year. Your voice will then be heard."

"I'd like to get a few things for ... " she tried once more to say.

The soft eyes now a cold hard glare; Mary was dismayed.

The days, the weeks, the months went by. The rules had been established.

Work and pray, learn and say no words or be admonished.

The Convent life was frugal. The meals were just enough.

She'd never dreamed that life in here would ever be this tough.

She worked it out though; did her best; excelled at all she tried.

She would not fail; she'd wanted this; she would not be denied.

A year had passed when came a note to come and see the Mother.

Mary made a list of all the things she hoped that she could cover.

"Welcome child," the Mother said. "Relax and sit awhile.

Please tell me how you're life has been within this domicile."

A chance to speak, to talk aloud. She hoped there'd be no censure.

How much should she say to her? How much should she venture?

"Mother, I must tell you that I have found it hard

to get by without speaking while here within this ward.

I'd like a few things for my room. It's very dark and dreary.

My mattress is so lumpy I can't sleep, and I'm so weary."

"Remember child, we're very poor. We haven't got a lot.

You're going to have to make do with exactly what you've got.

Off you go now Sister, and remember not a word.

I'll see you in another year. Your voice will then be heard"

She went back to her quiet life, her frustrations subdued.

She prayed; she worked; she studied hard. This was her purview.

Another year had gone by when the Mother called once more.

She'd only ask one thing this time; in earnest she'd implore.

"Welcome child," the Mother said. "How are you, my dear?

How have you been getting on while here for this past year?"

"Mother, I'm aware we're poor. I don't want to presume,

But I need more heat; I'm always cold when e'er I'm in my room."

"You're right my child. We don't have much. Have you so soon forgot

what I told you just last year; to do with what you've got?

Off you go now Sister, and remember not a word.

I'll see you in another year. Your voice will then be heard"

The next year passed in quiet. The Mother called again.

Mary now had planned to leave, but how would she explain?

"Welcome child," the Mother said. "Why do you look so sad?

Where's that pretty smile of yours? Are things really so bad?"

"I've tried to do my best while here," Mary said, head down.

"I'm going to leave; I just can't cope." Mother's face now frowned.

"That's fine by me," the Mother said, "You will not be detained.

It seems that since you first arrived, you've constantly complained."

A Golfer's Lament

(It's so hard to get a good tee time)

I played a game of golf today, the weather a delight.

The breeze was fresh; the rays were warm; there were no clouds in sight.

An early spit of rain had passed to moist and soft the green.

It was the finest day so far; the best this year I've seen.

I played with Paul. We play each week to test our nerve and skill

We wager each and every time. The bet, a five buck bill.

We started shortly after ten. We always walk the track.

When noon bell chimed, we'd finished nine. By two we'd done the back.

A road runs by the seventeenth. The traffic moves in shuffle.

The rumble of this road is close; cacophony's kerfuffle

We seldom ever notice, though. We maintain concentration

until today. A hearse went by with cars all in formation.

As somber session slowly passed, Paul moved his cap to chest.

He raised his arm and waved good-bye. His eyes were sad, depressed.

"So what's going on?" I asked. He said, "It brings me close to tears.

I'm going to miss her. We'd been wed for almost thirty years."

Wurd Pouer

God's gift to me was wundrus voyce, but not the gift to rite.

I new it wen just a we boy, wen pomes I wood recyte.

As I gru older, I was yused by men to crouds provoke.

With pashun I coud say the wurds ritten by uther foke.

Then I got into politiks, and soon got elekted.

Sometymes I tryd to rite the wurds I wanted to be sed.

I had a staf of riters tho, who smyled and gave me theres.

"Just say these wurds," thay'd say to me. "You have the savware fare."

I now have more tyme on my hands. I am Pryme Ministur.

My offise has a grayt big desk compleet with compewter.

And now I rite all my own wurds; with staf I just confur,

becuz my riting program has a bilt in spel chekur.

*** Memo to Depewty Pryme Ministur … get spel chekur ficksed. ***

Teacher's Pet

The school year near over, the middle of June.

The Grade Three class would start holidays soon.

Their final exams were over and done,

The year-end party had just begun.

The kids were excited; a hullabaloo,

with goodies to eat, and games to play too.

They'd brought their teacher presents that day,

To thank her in everyone's own special way

Mrs. Gobbett stood proud; they'd all made the grade.

The good ones, the bad ones, not one would she trade.

She loved one and all, and they loved her as well.

So much, they could barely not blurt out and tell

what gifts they had brought her. She made it a game.

Before she would open each one she would name

just what the gift was. She'd make them a bet

of a hug that she'd guess each one's gift secret.

Young Sara came forward, her gift held up high.

Mrs. Gobbett said "Thank-you," then smiled. Sara sighed.

She knew Sara's dad was a florist by trade,

but before she would guess, she'd play out her charade.

She held it, and shook it; she squeezed it as well,

then said, "It is flowers. I'm sure. I can tell."

"That's right. How'd you know?" Sara said with a shrug.

"Oh just a wild guess. Now give me a hug."

Then Erin came forward; she clutched her secret.

"I don't think you'll guess this, and I'll win the bet."

Mrs. Gobbett said, "Thank-you, I think that I might,"

since Erin's dad's store was called 'Chocolate Delights'.

She held it, and shook it, and squeezed it as well,

then said, "It is chocolates. I'm sure. I can tell."

"That's right. How'd you know?" Erin asked with a shrug.

"Oh just a wild guess. Now give me a hug."

Little Matthew came next. "Can you guess what this is?"

She might guess the rest, but she'd never guess his.

"Don't shake it; it's fragile," he said with a smile,

"And it's only been wrapped for a very short while."

Now young Matthew's folks owned the local wine store,

so she smiled as she picked his gift up off the floor.

" I think that I'll guess it. I think that I know."

She held it up high, looking up from below.

The box had a leak, which she touched with her finger.

She smelled it, detecting a slight taste of ginger.

"Is it wine," she inquired? "No, it's not," he replied.

She tasted it then. What could be inside?

"Champagne," she inquired? "That's not it," Matthew smiled.

She took one more taste. He laughed loudly and wild.

"I give up. I don't know?" Matthew's face shone with glee.

" Surprise," Matthew said! "It's a puppy from me."

Paddy's Pot of Gold

'Twas a glorious morn on the Emerald Isle, and Paddy had gone out to play.

He played the front nine in near record time. He hoped he'd be done by mid-day.

On number sixteen his ball found the trees, so he made his way into the woods.

He'd look for a while. He'd find it, he hoped. He'd save those two strokes if he could.

He was looking around under brush, under twigs, when he spotted a man on the ground.

Out cold, maybe dead, with a bump on his head. Beside him, the ball. It was found.

"My goodness!" he said. The bump was dark red. "My ball must have hit him, I fear."

He knelt down beside. The man was alive. Each breath brought a moan he could hear.

The man was quite short, dressed all in bright green, red hat, and a long crooked nose.

He opened his eyes; shook his head in surprise, as Paddy was leaning quite close.

"Who are you? What's going on?" the little man asked, as he rubbed his head with his hand.

"It seems," Paddy spoke, " That on my last stroke, my ball, on your head, it did land.

"Okay", the man said. "You've captured me fair. 'Tis a Leprechaun that I am.

Three wishes I'll grant you. Those are the rules. The dream of every man."

"No thanks," Paddy said. "I just can't accept. I'm glad though that you are all right.

He picked up his ball, said goodbye and then left; down the fairway and soon out of sight.

The Leprechaun thought, "Now there's a good man, but he caught me and I have no choice.

I'll grant him the wishes that I would ask for. My will onto him I will foist.

A golfer he is, so a great one he'll be. And also, ... unlimited money.

As for his sex life, he'll be a new man. The young girls will all call him honey."

For over a year, from the woods on 16, he watched Paddy hit balls long and straight.

One day as he hid, Paddy passed fairly close, so he called out his name, "PADDY, WAIT!"

Paddy turned back; came over, and said, "How are you doing my friend."

"Just fine I am," said the little green man. "My greetings to you I extend."

"And how is your game? Are you hitting it well?" "Great," Paddy said. "Under Par."

"My first gift to you," the Leprechaun smiled, "even though you were not aware.

And how is the money holding out? Do you find that you have enough?"

"My pocket is magic. Each time I reach in, there's always more of the stuff."

"I gave you that too," the little man said. "And your sex life, how has it been?"

"Pretty good'" Paddy said. Sometimes twice a week. I'm popular with the Colleens"

"That's it, twice a week," the Leprechaun asked? Is that all the sex that you've had?"

"Well my parish is small," Paddy said with a smile, "and you know, for a Priest that's not bad."

A Debt Barely Paid

This tale I hope will tickle your bone; your funny bone, I mean.

It's a story of Charlie, John, and Colleen, and some good-natured guile a'tween.

Charlie, a bachelor, lived up the street from John and, and his new wife Colleen.

Colleen was a beauty; a thing to behold, with a body that still was eighteen

When she worked in her garden, in short halter top, the neighborhood men gave a smile.

They'd all come outside to work in their yards, then stand there and ogle a while.

Colleen knew well her effect on these men. Delighted she was with this power.

Whenever she went back in to her house, the men would go in and cold shower.

Now one Sunday morn, with sun shining bright, to golf our John had gone.

Colleen finished up in the yard, and went in to shower, and fresh clothes to don.

She'd no sooner stripped, and was into the wet, when the doorbell dingled downstairs.

She ignored it at first, but it rang several times. She'd have to go see who was there.

Colleen emerged, grabbed a towel from the rack to wrap her body, bare.

Downstairs she went, and opened the door. Charlie, the neighbor, was there.

"I see you've been having a shower," he said, as he looked at her with a smile.

"I hope this is not inconvenient, but, could I come in for a while?"

"No," she said, "not right now. Were you wanting to speak to John?"

"I was," he replied, "but that's OK. I see that's a towel you've got on.

I was wondering if, for one hundred bucks, you'd open the towel to your waist?

It's a look that I want. I'm willing to pay, and then I will leave post haste."

At first she was flustered. What should she do? One hundred bucks was a lot.

What harm could it do? He'd just take a look. He'd promised to touch her not.

She knew she could use the extra cash, and she wouldn't be fully undressed.

"OK, she said, but just a quick peek," and removed the towel from her breasts.

"I knew they'd be nice," Charlie remarked. "I see that they're firm, and yet soft.

For another one hundred bucks would you let the towel fall all the way off?"

She'd gone this far. "Why not," she said, as the towel dropped clear to the floor.

He had a good look; gave her two hundred bucks; said goodbye, and walked out the door.

Colleen went back to her shower again, surprised at what she'd done.

It was worth it, she thought, to have some cash; and it had been a little fun.

Maybe she'd buy that dress she liked, the one with the low cut back.

She'd have to speak to Charlie though. He'd have to cut her some slack.

A little while later John arrived home, tired from his day on the links.

Colleen had made him his favorite meal. Her conscience was guilty, methinks.

When asked of her day, and how it had gone, she mentioned that Charlie'd come by.

"Did he pay me the two hundred bucks that he owes?" John asked, as she broke down and cried.

Birthday Surprise

It's funny about humour, and the things that make us smile.

To some, what is amusing, is to others course and vile.

This is a story guys might like. Some girls might take offence.

They just don't see the humour when one speaks of flatulence.

This story's of a friend of mine. Some parts of it are true.

It's tragic, and yet funny. It depends your point of view.

It talks of love and sacrifice, temptation, and surprise,

and how our fortune can unfold when we open our eyes.

At school he was one of the boys. To strangers he was Art.

We called him by his nickname though. To us he was 'The Fart'.

He'd earned this nickname aptly, and he liked it. He was proud

of how his special talent made him stand out from the crowd.

When very young he'd learned to love molasses home-baked beans.

He ate at least one serving every day throughout his teens.

He knew if he ate just enough, his stomach would react,

and how when he recycled them, to all of us distract.

His sphincter was a fine tuned tool. It had distinctive tone.

With volume, pitch, and timbre, he could make it sigh or moan.

Sometimes we’d see him rise up on one cheek, but hear no sound.

Sometimes he'd rip it, bark, or quack, the smell always profound.

He was a hero to us guys. No one else had his skill.

He was a party favorite. He could perform at will.

He had a little problem though. He couldn't get a date.

The girls just didn't understand, nor did they 'preciate.

He could have had a girlfriend if he'd just stopped with the beans.

But so far he had still not met the lady of his dreams.

So he kept up his artistry, his analgesic voice.

It was his thing. It's who he was. No girlfriends were his choice.

Then one fine day it happened, and she came into his life.

He knew as soon he met her that someday she'd be his wife.

He gave up beans and courted her, proposed, and she agreed.

As long as he could guarantee from his bane he'd been freed.

They wed, had kids, a boy, a girl; joined church, and PTA.

He often dreamed of home-baked beans, but never went astray.

They prospered. He worked in the bank. They bought a home in town.

His boyhood nickname long forgot; his repute was renowned.

It seemed that all was going great. His life was a success.

But life sometimes plays tricks on us. It lies in wait, I guess.

We all have weaker moments, and sometimes our guard comes down.

That's when the Devil laughs at us, and turns our smile to frown.

The day that Art turned twenty-eight, with some boys from the bank,

they went out to a pub for lunch. Three jugs of beer they drank.

Some beans were placed in front of him. He never had a chance.

The smell too much, he wolfed them down. His gut began its dance.

Within an hour of back to work, a smell reeked through the place.

The like of which took breath away, its source they could not trace.

By three the bank had closed its doors, the staff not feeling well.

They were sent home, the fire hall called to source the pungent smell.

Though Art knew well whence came the smell, the truth he would forsake.

Though guilty, he would not admit; his repute was at stake.

His stomach spoke as he walked out, a rumbling of ripe gas.

He knew though, that within two hours this flatulence would pass.

As Art had left for work that morn, his wife had been precise,

"Do not come home till five P.M. Your dinner's a surprise."

So he set out the long way home. A two-hour walk he'd take.

By then he should be over the results of his mistake.

All the way home he spread good will. No one walked close behind.

By five, when he at last arrived, his farting had declined.

His wife met him at their front door with blindfold he must wear.

She led him in, and sat him down upon dining room chair.

Something smelled good. He knew it well, the scent of fresh baked beans.

Had his wife, for his birthday, cooked the soul food of his dreams?

She moved to pull the blindfold off. The phone rang in the hall.

She made him promise not to peek while she answered the call.

As he sat there sniffing the air, he felt his stomach churn.

He felt a big one coming on, and had no-where to turn.

He shifted, moved up on one cheek, and let go a great RRIIIPPPP.

It cut the air. The smell was bad. His nose began to drip.

He had to dissipate the stink. He waved his arms around.

This movement brought the urge again, and one more loud, rude sound.

He stood and flailed his arms around. He had to clear the air.

He heard his wife hang up the phone, so sat back in his chair.

"And now for something special, dear. I hope you’ll be surprised."

"I’ve made you suffer long enough." She uncovered his eyes.

He was surprised, and mortified. Her secret, you might guess.

Around the table, trying to breathe, were eighteen dinner guests.

The Construction Bastards

'Twas a beautiful day in September. The leaves had just started to turn,

Eddie, his wife, and their six year old son, for the lake and a picnic did yearn.

They had loaded their car with towels and suits, and a basket of food, pop, and beer,

and headed on out for a day in the sun; perhaps the last one of the year.

"What a wonderful day for a drive," Eddie said. He smiled, and looked at his mate.

Eddie Junior, in back was happy as well. To get there he hardly could wait.

A day at the beach, a romp in the surf, and maybe a sandcastle too.

If they got there early, they hoped they would get a spot with a Bar-B-Que.

As they hurried along they all sang along with a tune on the car radio.

"What's this up ahead?" Eddie scowled, as he said. "Construction!" He started to slow.

For there by the side of the road stood a man with a flag that he waved, then held up.

He was dressed all in red, even cap atop head, and he signaled for Eddie to stop.

Eddie pulled up, and rolled down the glass. The man came up to the car.

"What's up?" Eddie asked. "I hope these repairs don't go on very far."

The man looked in and said with a smile, "I'm hoping that I can entreat.

The 'Red Bastard' I am of this fresh macadam, and I'm sure needing something to eat."

"No problem," said Ed, "If that's all you want." He reached for the basket of food.

He gave him a sandwich wrapped freshly in foil, trying to maintain his good mood.

"Thanks and goodbye," said the man dressed in red. "Don't be driving too fast.

There's construction ahead. It'll take you a while before you finally get past."

Eddie pulled out; stepped hard on the gas. He now had to make up some time.

He hoped they would not be held up again. They then passed a large traffic sign.

'FINES WILL BE DOUBLED WHEN MEN ARE AT WORK' the big yellow sign boldly read.

"How long till we're there," Junior whined from the back? "Sit back and shut-up," Eddie said.

They were moving along at a good rate of speed when a 'SLOW-DOWN' sign appeared.

Then a man by the side of the road with a flag, dressed all in green, with a beard.

He signaled for them to stop the car. Eddie braked, and moved to the curb.

The man approached. Eddie rolled down the glass. "What now?" He was getting perturbed.

"The 'Green Bastard' I am of this fresh macadam," said the elf-like man with a smile.

"Could I bother you for a drink today? My water's been gone for a while."

"Here's a Coke," Eddie said, as he reached in the back. "Now, please let us get on our way"

'Thanks," said the man. "Don't drive too fast. I hope that you have a nice day."

Eddie sped up. They'd be late now for sure. Today there'd be no Bar-B-Que.

"Oh No! Not again," Eddie looked up ahead. A man stood there dressed all in blue.

He was waving them down. Eddie skid to a stop. He was thinking things very unkind.

He decided that they had had quite enough. He'd give him a piece of his mind.

He rolled down his glass as the fellow came up. This guy, he was going to confront.

"I know; let me guess; the 'Blue Bastard' you are. What in the Hell do you want?"

"It seems you were speeding," the cop scowled right back. "And for that you'll receive a citation.

Now if you'd be so kind to please try to find your license and registration."

Young Rob

Young Rob was a golfer, a good one at that. His skills were exquisitely honed.

With crisp long drives, and putts on a string, he usually played in the zone.

It was nothing for him to shoot under par. He'd break it most times he played.

His handicap hovered just around scratch, and his swagger was oft on display.

Now Rob had been playing since just a young boy. His father, the local golf pro.

He'd learned the game early and practiced a lot, but still there was much more to know.

For years, while in school, he worked at the club learning the craft of the trade.

His goal was to follow, and maybe exceed the footsteps his father had made.

I remember the time, with bets on the line, that Rob and two other young tigers,

With wager agreed were on the first tee, when up to them came Pat, his father.

"Can I join you boys?" Pat asked the group. I see that you are only three."

"I suppose you can," Rob looked at his friends. "It doesn't matter to me."

"How many strokes will you give me today?" Pat asked Rob with a smile.

"I can't hit the ball quite as far anymore, and I know that you smack it a mile.

With a seventy-five I'll know I've played well. You'll probably shoot under par.

So give me three strokes and we'll play for five bucks. We'll see if there's jam in that jar."

"All right!" said Rob. "That's fine by me. I've another game on with these boys.

They've been getting a little cocky of late, and their egos I plan to destroy.

They're needing a little humility. It's a lesson I'm planning to teach.

But I don't mind taking a fiver from you. In fact, it'll be five from each."

So the match was alive. They all hit good drives; then onto the green; all made par.

Rob birdied the next. His stroke was pure text. The others were even thus far.

On three, four, and five Pat's game took a dive; down three in their little contest.

At the turn to the back it seemed a ransack. Rob three up on all of the rest.

The tigers were harnessed. Rob knew they were tamed. He'd muffled their roar for now.

But his father, he knew, had not been subdued. He'd keep on the pressure somehow.

As they moved round the back they humbled the track; all four of them even on each.

As they stood on eighteen, they looked to the green, Rob wondering if he could reach.

"What do you think?" he mused to his dad. "If I keep it well right, can I clear?

I'll be needing a three to beat you today. It's the trees in my path that I fear."

"I know one thing," Pat solemnly said, "When younger the trees I could fly.

But I can't anymore. I'll be playing for a four. At my age I'd never get by."

Rob moved to the tee, his big stick in hand, and swung it with all of his might.

His timing was perfect; his swing was sublime. The ball flew with great length and height.

While nearing the trees on its path to the green, a summer breeze rustled the branches.

The ball seemed to slow; caught the trees; fell to creek; and with it, the last of Rob's chances.

As they walked off the green on number eighteen Rob cursed his bold strategy.

For all of his trouble, he'd taken a double, and the others had all made a three.

The tigers were even. Rob owed Pat a five. His ego had taken a fall.

"However," Pat chuckled, "When I was your age, those trees were but five feet tall."

Harry's Bad Luck

This is a story of Harry and Beth; or perhaps their story's end.

Married they were for many a year; partners and best of friends.

A devoted wife through all of it; support and loving care.

Now, as Beth sat near his bed, she cried, then said a prayer.

Harry soon would leave this earth; slowly slipping away.

Three days in a coma now, his pallor was quite gray.

He lay there in his hospital bed with tubes, and drains, and such.

Beth looked at him, then cried again. She loved him Oh so much.

Then he seemed to come around. He'd done this once or twice.

His eyelids slightly fluttered. His hand moved; cold as ice.

Beth reached out and took his hand. "Harry, I'm right here."

He sighed, and slowly moved his lips; then murmured, "Please come near."

As Beth moved close beside him, he whispered in her ear,

"There's something I must say to you before I leave, my dear.

You've always been there with me, throughout all the bad times.

I have to tell you something now before my last bell chimes."

"When I got fired from that great job, you were there to give support.

When my business failed and I was down, you were there for my comfort.

When I got shot and nearly died, you were right there by my side.

When we lost the house you told me that we'd take it in our stride"

"And now that I'm about to pass, you're still here to sustain."

"It's all right dear," she gently said, "Right here I will remain."

"No please," he gasped. "Please go away!" Her face was horror struck.

"I've finally got it figured out. You bring me real bad luck."

The Nursing Home

Kathleen Savon was getting on; turned ninety last July.

An Independent lady, she continued to defy

her daughter's best intentions. She did not desire to move

into a Home for older folks. This plan she disapproved.

The problem was she fell a lot, and could not live alone.

A nurse came by two times each day. She came right to her home.

One time she fell; could not get up. She lay there on the floor.

In pain, she called out loudly when the nurse knocked on the door.

The nurse helped to convince her she should give a Home a try.

There wasn't much choice anyway, and there was one nearby.

The people there would care for her. For nothing would she want.

A hairdresser, a library, a church, and restaurant.

Her daughter, who was quite relieved, brought Kathleen to the Home.

They toured the place, and met some folks. She would not be alone.

Before her daughter left that day, she helped Kathleen unpack.

She'd come to see her in two days. She promised she'd be back.

Next morning after breakfast, which they brought right to her room.

A nurse came by with flowers, some pink lilies in full bloom.

She gave Kathleen a nice warm bath, and then she set her hair,

then took her to the common room, and sat her in a chair.

The chair looked out a window, with a garden just outside.

A garden much like hers at home, with lilacs just beside.

Some other people, much her age, had gathered in the room.

Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad, and not all gloom and doom.

While sitting in her reverie daydreaming of times past,

she started to tilt sideways. All the nurses were aghast.

So two rushed up behind her to help stop her pending fall.

She turned and gave a dirty look. They had a lot of gall.

The nurses backed away once more. Kathleen sat straight again.

With all of this attention this place really was a pain.

Then once again she tilted. This time to the other side.

Once more the nurses rushed to her, their service to provide.

This happened several times that day. Each time they kept her straight.

She tried to shoo them off of her. She was now quite irate.

She didn't think she liked it here. She didn't want to stay.

When once again her daughter came, this thought she would convey.

She woke up in the morning. She had calmed down by this time.

A bath, some food, some loving care, her daughter came at nine.

"So how are things," she asked her Mom? "Okay, ... just one bad part,"

Kathleen replied. "I'd like it more if they'd just let me fart."

Moving Day

This is a timeless story, though it has a little twist.

Though circumstances vary, I am sure you'll get the gist.

The lesson we might learn from this. To all men, please be warned.

It's tough to get the better of a woman you have scorned.

______________________________________

Marie and Ted had now been wed for more than twenty years.

Of late though, things had not been good. Marie had shed some tears.

Her husband had decided that he wanted a divorce.

He'd found a younger woman, and this issue he would force.

He wanted a quick settlement. There must be no delay.

His girlfriend wanted to move in, and move in right away

The tears she shed were not for Ted. That's not why she was sad.

She didn't want to lose her home, and she was fighting mad.

He gave her three days to move out, and he was quite explicit.

The house was his, his family home, and she had no claim to it.

He'd found another place for her where she could live in style,

until they reached a settlement, but that would take a while

She spent the first day packing up all that belonged to her.

He told her that at least for now, he'd keep the furniture.

The second day the movers came and took her things away.

She sat, that night, in silence thinking how she'd been betrayed.

She hadn't given up hope yet. He was in for a fight.

She'd thought of something that would work. At least, she thought it might.

She sat down for a final meal the eve of the third day.

Some caviar, some garlic shrimp, a glass of Chardonnay.

She took the shrimp and caviar, and mixed it in a bowl.

With bowl in hand, revenge in mind, she took a little stroll.

Into each window's curtain rod, this mixture she then poured.

She smiled when done. This battle won. She might yet win this war.

The next day Ted arrived back home, his sweet young thing as well.

It was true bliss for a few days, till they perceived a smell.

They aired the place. They cleaned, they mopped. They checked vents for dead mice.

Each day the smell grew worse and worse. It wasn't very nice.

They pulled up all the carpets. The exterminators came.

But after all was said and done, the stench remained the same.

Ted's sweet young thing was quite upset. They moved to a hotel.

There was no more that he could do. His house, he'd have to sell.

Six months went by. No offers came. His price kept coming down.

The word was out: un-sellable. It spread beyond the town.

His hotel costs were building up. His sweet young thing was sad.

And then she left. How quickly things had gone from good to bad.

He called Marie and asked her, "Would you like to move back in?"

She told him she'd be glad to, but it wouldn't be with him.

"It's much too late for that," she said, "I'm no longer your spouse.

But for one tenth of what its worth, I'll gladly buy your house."

Ted knew that she could never know how bad was the decay.

He told her that he would agree, if she would sign today.

Marie agreed, the papers, signed. Their home was hers alone.

Her strategy had worked, it seems. For nothing she'd atone

Next day she stood out on her porch and watched Ted's movers work

As they brought out his furniture, she could not help but smirk.

When taking down the curtains, they had gagged at the vile smell.

"Please don't forget the curtain rods," she said. "They're his as well."

The Triple Filter Test

One day, way back in ancient Greece the 'Great One' sat alone

A student came and sat beside. He spoke in a hushed tone

"Oh Socrates, I've heard some news. It brings me much dismay.

I feel that I must pass it on, though it be mere hearsay."

"Before you do," said Socrates. "There's something I need say.

Are you sure that I want to hear this gossip you convey?

It seems that you can hardly wait to get it off your chest,

but first we will subject it to the 'Triple Filter Test'?"

"The 'Triple Filter Test', my lord? I know not what you mean."

A lesson at this time and place, not something he'd foreseen.

He wasn't sure now if he should pass on this news, or not.

"What is this test, Oh Socrates? It's nothing I've been taught."

"The test first looks for truthfulness, and so I ask of you

This thing that you would tell me, are you sure that it is true?

"Well, no," the young man said to him. "It's just what I've been told.

Does that mean I can't tell you? Must this rumor I withhold?"

"Perhaps. Lets look at filter two to see if yet you should.

Is what you are about to say going to be something good?

I hope you'd not say something bad that you weren't sure was true."

The young man shrugged. "It's not so good, but I just thought that you ..."

"Not true, not good. There's but one more. My point, I hope you'll see.

Is what you want to tell me going to be of use to me?"

The young man turned his eyes away, and then he bowed his head.

"It seems my news has failed the test. I'll say not what was said."

We know that Socrates was wise, and held in high esteem.

Perhaps the best philosopher the world has ever seen.

No doubt, he knew a lot of how a man should live his life.

He never knew that Plato, though, was foolin' with his wife.

Then again ... maybe he did!

The Perfect Woman

While walking for some exercise, I felt the need to eat.
I noticed a nice restaurant, I entered, took a seat.
I noticed at the table next a gorgeous redhead sat.
She looked at me. I smiled at her, then we began to chat.

Quite suddenly she raised her hand. A sneeze she tried to stifle.
Her glass eye from its socket flew like shot from out a rifle.
Reflexively, I raised my hand and caught it from the air,
and handed it right back to her with gentlemanly flair.

"Oh My," she said. "I'm sorry," as she popped it back in place.
"I hate it when that happens," then a smile came to her face.
"Please let me buy you dinner. Will you join me while we dine?"
"Why thank-you. I would like that?" This was turning out just fine.

We talked, we ate, we had some laughs, then left to find a bar.
When there, she bought two rounds of drinks, and bought me a cigar.
She told me all about her self. She wasn't too complex.
She loved to have a good time, and she really enjoyed sex.

On cue, we went to her place, where we soon were in her bed.
The sex was great. What can I say? It's better left unsaid.
I woke up the next morning to a breakfast feast, gourmet.
This woman was incredible, much more than a good lay.

"You know," I said, "You're perfect. You're the woman of my dreams.
Are you this nice to every guy you meet. Please pass the cream."
She smiled. "I very rarely bring a man home to my bed.
It's just because you happened ... to catch my eye." she said.