Medical Opinions (sung to the tune of The Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit”) One doc says I’m OK. Another says I’m ill. And a third prescribes a magic pill To make pain go away. A fourth one says I need a stent For one aorta’s frail, And a surgeon says my back hurts Because a disc
Early April Ever approaching spring. Never quite getting there. But coming closer.
The Hole In The Bucket I first heard Pete Seeger and Odetta sing this classic song of male ineptitude back in the 1960s. As his questions got dumber and dumber, she got more and more impatient, until finally she was shouting at him. But he had the last word. “There’s a hole in the bucket,
POLS They claim to be trying to fix The worst of our country’s malfunctions When they come up with ploys and neat tricks, But they are devoid of compunction. All they want is to cling to their seats, So they concentrate on re-election, Using fund-raising rallies and tweets And practicing mass misdirection. In the end,
Deep Freeze The snow has melted But I am still cold inside. When will my spring come?
The Spice Of Life Quarks form the base of all matter, we’re told, And I find it delightful that they Come not in six types, but six flavors- At least that’s what the physicists say. There are up quarks and down quarks, And bottoms, and tops, And strange quarks and charm quarks, Before the list
Making It You’ve outsmarted all of the rest. You’ve proven that you are the best. But still you can’t stop. You work till you drop, Because nothing exceeds like success.
Getting On In spring, some old men’s fancies sadly turn to thoughts of loves long lost, abandoned, left in the distance, only dreamt. Not this old man’s fancies, for I’ve been lucky in love, and so remain, although I bitterly regret the pain I caused to those I loved and left. For I have been
The Festival Of Toast Dirigibles for Heaven leave on time each hour from the tower on the shore. Wing’d people flicker through the flower-towns, feeding as they fly. Today’s great leader frowns from a monument of paper to a war we loved to lose. Electric cowbells chime in the upland meadows where the tractors mate,
The Festival of Toast Dirigibles for Heaven leave on time each hour from the tower on the shore. Wing’d people flicker through the flower-towns, feeding as they fly. Today’s great leader frowns from a monument of paper to a war we loved to lose. Electric cowbells chime in the upland meadows where the tractors mate,