Little Tommy Tucker,
Sang for his supper,
Died of malnutrition,
Cause he wouldn't play covers
 
*****

Winter... Summer...
Winter... Summer...
I prefer summer to winter
In winter I sit around dingy dusty bars, watching my life go past
In summer, I can sit on the patio
 
*****

This next poem is dedicated to an ex-girlfriend, it's called
"You blanket me like impending doom".

You blanket me like impending doom.
You smother me in a foul air.
Like a report card, I am held back,
By your overdue fines.
Your thirst for cruelty is insatiable.
Your head is a carton of hate.
Like the moon you have a prehistoric dark side,
And your sea of tranquility is equally dry.
Satan has first draft pick on all your children.
Your birthstone is asphault.
A drunk carnival ride operator,
Could count your virtues on his remaining fingers.
Your brain capacity has a daily limit.
You are as clumsy as Victorian surgery.
A playground face you made as a child has stuck.
My patience is an exhaust pipe you greedly suck.
You are as inspiring as network television.
Every apartment you lived in, has burned to the ground.
We were born on the same day, yet you always forget my birthday.
On top of everything else, I think you do it on purpose.
Didn't end well...
 
*****

So I went for a rectal exam, and as many of us do, and
I wrote a poem about it

The rectal exam

"Okay then", the doctor says,
"Legs up, pants down"
I hear the satisfied snap of a plastic glove
Time for a rectal exam, the doctor says
He looks embarrassed
which is encouraging
I notice he is left-handed
"I hope you don't feel more creative", I quip,
"When you're going south, trust a southpaw" he replies
We both laugh away our male uneasiness,
in another time and place I would say that we were bonding
Ever had one of these before he asks
I smile shyly
"I took my ring off", he smiles
But all levity suddenly stops
When he inserts a greasy latexed digit into my rectum
and I cry out...
the name of another doctor
 
*****