Archive for the 'Poetry….' Category


The Aliens (a song)

I am tired of all this talk about the aliens and how people think they want to rule the earth.

I believe the truth might be much simpler and just might be a thought to cause you mirth.

I don’t believe the aliens are as sinister as experts here often like to say.

The aliens just might be as dumb as you and me and visitors are just guys who lost their way.


Crop circles might be only big graffiti from aliens who just stopped to sign their name.

Or maybe they stopped to take a tinkle and chose to jerk our collective chain.

Or maybe it’s two guys out on a bender–who says an alien doesn’t like his beer?

Perhaps they’re only playing and all they’re really saying is, “We really love the chicks that you’ve got here!”


And I believe there might be a connection between aliens and dryers that eat socks.

Perhaps they think socks are quite delicious and don’t have as many calories as rocks.

They may be serving them as appetizers, a special treat at any alien bash.

Perhaps they like to eat things that taste like sweaty feet. Just be happy that they don’t eat up your stash!


Abductions are another cause of terror. A capture by an alien is our dread.

For no one wants to feel an icy probe prodding in their belly or their head.

But try to think of aliens as friendly. It’s not their aim to try and make us cry.

The truth might simply be that our blood and bile and pee are substances that make an alien high.


So now I have amused you with this ditty about our little friends from outer space.

If you ever have a chance to meet one, greet him with a smile upon your face.

Remember that out there in the Universe, the aliens are our celestial friends.

They know who we are because they’re watching from afar and might save our ass when our world finally ends!


The Power of a Dog



There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie–
Perfect passsion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart to a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find–it’s your own affair–
But … you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!)
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone–wherever it goes–for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we’ve kept ’em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-term loan is as bad as a long–
So why in–Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?


There’s a God Being Born in Iceland

There’s a God being born in Iceland

Conceived of lightning and lava and snow.

There’s a God being born in Iceland

And it’s likely no one will know

For this God being born in Iceland

Is born in the age of the mind.

No one will notice, even though they all see,

The birth of a God this time.

This God being born in Iceland

Is forged of fire and stone.

But this God being born in Iceland

will stand on the mountain alone.

No one will see her and worship.

No one will send her their praise.

She will stand in the North, in Iceland,

Alone for all of her days.

Yes, a God’s being born in Iceland

And I would like to be first

To see her and worship and send her a prayer

And welcome her on her birth.


How the Hell Did I get 40?

How the hell did I get 40?

Two weeks ago I was 20

My belly was firm. My tits were high

The boys whistled when I walked by.

How the hell did I get 40?

Somehow I aged beyond my mind.

Wheels turned, time went by.

How the hell did I get 40?

A brutal joke that nature plays.

Days go faster, time speeds away.

How the FUCK did I get 40?

Here I sit, broken, battered,

Bitter, bleak…heart’s been shattered.

I just don’t know how I got 40.

Should I go on? Should I continue?

Fight the fight til the blue plate menu?

I really don’t like this being 40.

No sex, no fun, no spring break vacation.

Wisdom seems small consolation.

How the hell did I get 40?

Indecision…wishy, washy.

Should I trudge on or hari kari?

What to do with me at 40…………….


Hello Boys

Hello, boys–good to see you again!

I’m gonna speak and scare some of you “men”.

See, I’m not meek and a 2 ain’t my size.

I got some big ol’ titties and some fat, juicy thighs.

You’re scared of the power that moves under my skin.

That’s why you prefer your girls small, flat and thin.

You’re scared of my ass. You’re scared of my twat.

You’re scared of my mind filled with rebellious thought.

You tell me I’m ugly when I’m merely fat.

You say, “Bitch, I know you don’t think you’re all that!”

But I know I’m beautiful and I know I’m hot.

And I know I’m all the things you wish you forgot.

My hair is a flame. My eyes are like gems.

There is comfort and warmth in the spread of my limbs.

My skin is like satin. My lips are like honey.

I’m smart, I’m quick, and, motherfucker, I’m funny!

I can chat about bullshit or talk something deep.

I can cook you your breakfast and rock you to sleep.

I can make you sing chouruses of sweet “Hallelujah”.

And make you walk so tall, folks wish they knew ya.

But you insist on trying to run me down.

When you call me names, you make yourself the clown.

Because I’m not defined by your miniscule mind

Or your sad little insults or your ties that bind.

See, what you forget is I don’t NEED your ass.

I don’t need your dick. I don’t need your cash.

I don’t need you to make me the woman I AM.

What I need you to do is be a FUCKING MAN!

Don’t get all mad if I don’t bow and scrape.

If I say ‘no’, don’t try to rape.

Don’t try to beat me because I looked somewhere else.

Have some dignity, man. Take some pride in yourself.

A real man’s not threatened by a woman with strength.

He’s not scared when she talks. He’s not scare if she thinks.

He likes a woman who can hold her own,

Who can stand up straight and walk alone.

Let me bottom line this–put it down on the wire.

If I have a man, it’s not from need–it’s desire.

It won’t be because I must have you here.

It’s only because I lust for you, dear.

So don’t think you can force me or push me around.

Nothing you do can keep me down.

So watch out, boys, because I’m still here.

But all you Real Men–you have nothing to fear.



You say you love the feel of my panties on your face.

Your fingers on my satin. Your tongue on my lace.

My warm, sweet fragrance filling your mind

Is why you come back time after time.

You see my panties in every shade–

Red, white, pink, black, lavender, jade.

The blue granny panties and the leopard print thong.

That tiny black g-string that kept you hard all night long.

You see my panties everywhere you look–

Every drawer, every corner, every cranny, every nook.

You see my panties in your dreams at night,

Thrilling and delighting your inner sight.

You speak of my panties to everyone you see–

Your preacher, your mama, the guy on TV.

But as much as I love you, I’m doubting your sanity.

Because, baby, really, I don’t wear panties.

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