Iambi

Do you like the sound
Of other voices:
The choir,
The chant,
The litany?
Or is it the sound
Of your own voice:
The blather,
The blither,
The grate,
The groan?
You use volume to make
Yourself known;
To make yourself heard
And join the absurd.
Do you like
The sound of your own voice?
Join in the chorus.

Forever and ever
Without a choice,
Roofs were raised
In booming voice:
God the Father.
Proclaimed the choir.

In our two millenia,
The communal host blessed pro-choice,
With Omni-this and Omni-that:
Christ the Son.
Christ has won.
The carollers rejoice.

The Spirit transubstantiates
With tongues of creativity;
Is One with femininity.
What greater God!
What Trinity!

Mammy's accidents usually happened
Within a hundred foot radius of her stove.
Except the one time she had to work
Outside the home,
At the Aylmer Tomato Cannery.
     (Daddy was in his wet season,
      Being laid off was his reason)
The tip of her thumb was snipped,
And gone.
The joke never got old.
Someone looked inside
Every can we opened -
From that day on -
Truth is,
We always knew
A good bit of Mammy
Was in her stew.

Proud I was with my shoveling,
Moving snow to the end of the drive,
Lifing loads, shovelling high.
The armlifts created pyramids,
I was as proud as Pharoh coud be.
These pyramids
Could well entomb me.

Flying on my Shadow,
Enjoying the ride,
I passed a hillside
With stones, spelling out:
Sarnia Nudist Camp
In bright white letters,
Legible from a distance.

Did the frost push them up
Through the earthly womb
To birth this message
For the reading pleasure of passers-by?

Did the camp director create
This hillside billboard?

I've heard, at nightime, the stones
Gleam under a constant moon
That radiates above a notion of chance.

Temptation shies
From revealing sun,
Its subtleties
Shine on everyone.
Don't look for horns,
Fork and tail;
Its method ensnares
The unsuspecting,
Should they dare
Challenge to outwit.

We'll trade our souls,
For a sack;
Barter what we dearly hold;
Trade it in
For selfish goals.

Some advertise
A soul for sale
By self-service.
That ultimately fails.
Cuckold a friend,
Cheat at the end;
The tempter likes it
When we're lost
In the simplicity
Of detail.

So sly
We think
We lose our souls.
Terrified by
Eternal flames
That burn without
Consuming skin.
We don't
Lose that,
We wallow
In our sins.

This temptation needs
To stick us
In the end.

On the Emerald Isle when the brier's green,
Occur strange sights seldom seen.
There's golden rainbows and small clay pipes,
And wee folk dancing every night.

I've heard stories of the leprechaun, but
Before you see 'em they're surely gone.
Yet one green misty night in the brier,
I saw them jigging round the fire.

Sean and I were in green Irish woods,
Gathering shamrocks and just being good.
While searching near a hidden creek,
We heard faint giggles from fifty feet.

Near the giggles grew a small green fire,
Perhaps six inches high - no higher.
We crouched low for a better look,
To our surprise we saw a small green cook.

He wore a tall green hat and pulled-up socks,
And stirred a *** of simmering shamrocks.
Smoke curled from his pipe of clay,
Why, I remember his grin still today.

A band of gold encircled his brim,
My little finger seemed bigger than him.
He had golden buckles and a puggish nose,
Glimmering eyes and curly toes.

Sweet music floated on wings of air,
Fifty-one leprechauns were dancing near.
They passed the poteen with a smack of their lips,
As each in turn took a good Gaelic sip.

Suddenly the gaiety quickly slowed down.
Sure we were that we'd been found.
But they all looked north with reverent faces,
Bowed their heads, stood still in their places.

The banshee's wailing was heard afar,
O'erhead the Death Coach had a full car.
The wee folk respect, it must be said,
Erin's children when they're dead.

Soon flying fast through the green night air,
We spied King Darby hurrying near.
He rode atop his beloved steed,
O'er dales and glens, woods and mead.

His hummingbird lighted on a leaf,
And all the wee folk knelt beneath.
With a golden smile he waved to all,
To officially begin The Leprechaun Ball.

Tiny green fiddlers fiddled their fiddles,
That sounded just like ten thousand giggles.
Dancers danced on mists of green,
Pipers piped, but none were seen.

They danced and ate and passed the ladle,
And kicked up their heels to Irish reels.
We enjoyed the sight late into the night,
But suddenly they gave us a terrible fright.

They saw us cowering behind the trees,
So they cast a spell which made us freeze.
We'd heard what happens to caught spies,
That now are spiders, toads or flies.

Well, old King Darby drew us near,
Sean and I were in a terrible fear.
With a grin and a snap he made us small,
And requested our presence at the Leprechaun Ball.

We reeled and laughed with our new found friends,
'Til the green mist lifted to signal the end.
With a glean in his eye the good King said:
'Tis sure'n the hour yous be abed.

He waved his shillelagh to return our height,
Wished us well and bade good-night.
And as they rode the winds away
I suddenly remembered it was St. Patrick's Day.

I'm sure the lot of you think me a blarney liar, but that night I assure you
I danced 'round a green fire.

"Squeeze Please" presents as a cute word rhyme,
But its grip and depth
Is unique and sublime.
Part hug, some cuddle, but
More like a tickle...
It's fickle!!
Yet,
I sense familial love songs
When
My limbs contract to stop his wiggles-
And then,
Before he starts his giggles...
My knees squeeze...
That’s when I heard,
Without one word...

Squeeze because you love me;
Squeeze because I love you;
Squeeze because I feel protected;
Squeezing keeps we two connected.
Squeeze Please makes me feel secure.

Please squeeze... please... squeeze please me more.

Squeeze me to my happy place.
Squeezing tells me that I’m safe.
A squeeze will make me feel content
Your squeezes tend to give me strength.
Then Squeeze tight for respite and peace,
Like a weighted blanket as I sleep.
Squeeze me like a pet boa,
Squeeze because you're my own Granda.

I hear and listen when he says Squeeze Please;
That cute word rhyme really speaks to me.

(Now loosen and Squeeze Please some more.........................)

Pop bottles. Boxes of them.
The old man brought them home.
He collected them on the construction site, between lifts.
Sometimes it would be days between lifts,
So he filled time collecting bottles.
Hires, Fanta, Tab, Fresca, 7 Up, Mountain Dew,
Canada Dry...
Emptied by men, like him, from all over.
What conversations did he have with them
When he picked up the empties.
Did he indulge? He'd have liked Vernors.
Pop bottles were as good as gold.
Large bottles, a nickel: Small, two cents.
He kept us busy, weeding, straightening nails, digging, mixing cement, building fences, painting them, and the house;
Root cellars, garages, additions;
In fair, wet, or hot conditions.
Winter had it's own cuffs.

We'd cash in the bottles at Walker Bros.
Every Sunday he'd leave for weeks,
Up North, to places like Kapuskasing and Hearst.
He must've been thinking about us up there,
Collecting our bottles,
In fair, wet, or hot conditions.

Mammy knew the five second rule
Long ago:
"Don't worry. You'll
Eat a ton of dirt before you die."
Now I wonder on dirt's composite:
I swear I'll die talking *******.

When my time finally arrives,
Finality holds no surprise;
But please remember
To close my eyes,
Shut my mouth,
End my lies.
Lace polished shoes
On my feet,
Cross my hands
Upon my chest,
Comb my hair,
Let me rest.
And tell the truth
When you speak.

(and if it's not an imposition,
lay me in the right position)

Dispense with the hyperbole,
There's hell to pay,
I assure you.

Years past,
We strung
String,
Twenty feet long,
Between two
Campbells soup cans,
Like conches,
To get sound waves.
Now,
There are no
Strings attached,
Yet,
I hear you
Loud and clear.

Now Mammy dead
All these years,
The salt that mixes
With the tears
Drips on tender wounds.
This son, I'm not
The only one,
Deprived of so much more.
Time implored
By the adored,
Lead you to that room,
Left you
In that room.

Two of them,
So cute,
And such prodigious nibblers
In their striped coats,
Four inches high
On hind quarters,
Sharing the rich rain pulp
Of a maple-leaf key,
Looking over one another's shoulders
For the neighbor's cat.
We could be
More like that.

Mirrors recur here frequently
In verse and lyric.
I'm reading obituaries and
Seeing pictures of what will be.

Death recurs here frequently,
And pain, lots of it.
Broken people too.
It's like we're ambulance chasers,
****** reporters running down a story.

Cynthia's gone
Across this universe.
And, if there is a heaven,
She'll never have
To deal with Lennon.
He called her Cyn,
A name with
Quite a homonym
For deeds that once
Defined him,
Before he was
A man.

Warning: Explicit*

If you've read
Boys With Toys,
It should come
As no surprise,
Girls talk
Just like Guys.

Having drinks,
And having fun,
The girls
Discard the curls
To think of rhymes
For naughty lines:

You make my ****** rumba;
You make my ***** clammy;
You make my **** taut;
You make my ****** latch;
You make my **** spit;
You make my box rock;
You make my canoe coo;
You make my ****** *** sooner;
You make my **** fluff;
You make my slit submit;
You make my cooch smooch;
You make my **** swim;
You make my flower shower;
You make my toe glow.

And when the last drink
Has been drunk,
The shy girl stands
Raises her glass,
To proclaim proudly:
You make my **** grunt.
And they did.

It's wonderful to look
With wonder at our winter nights.
I don't know the constellations,
Glistening like my cold, wet eyes,
Deep in the sockets of sky.
I wonder,
Do they blink
As we crawl out our days.
O, stars, cast a shadow for me,
A midnight companion to whisper.
Let me cool
In your piercing,
Firey eyes.

Its commensal, at best,
This house fly of a guest;
Who frequents your home,
Alits on a chair,
Rubbing its hands together.
It shows no regrets,
Feeding, slurping and buzzing,
With a self-made bequest.
I can tolerate a bar fly;
A barn fly, a sty fly;
But,
I've the bottle fly,
That plunders my fridge,
Swarms over my beer
Like a blood-thirsty midge.
He's a house fly,
And ignorant,
So fly paper won't do.
I need a SWAT team to shoo
This house fly adieu.

I live in Chemical Valley.
It sounds horrible:
Better you than me.
Perhaps.
I grew up here,
Where the southern sky burns
Bloodstone red,
Mixing colours with the evening suns.
The St. Clair carries Huron's ghostly horns
Past the flaring refineries,
To Detroit's waters.
We have stop signs
And other amenities
Small cities are proud to maintain.
I heard the housing market
Is sustained on the divorce rate,
And not the petro-chemical industry;
We're closing another high school next year;
And there was a gruesome woodlot-****/******
Last week on the Reserve.
Maniacs living out some sick web-site.
But the soccer pitches are full,
And our Mayor is the longest serving one in Canada.
Just around the corner
(everything is just around the corner),
Our flag flies over the bones of our second Prime Minister,
(he's from Edinburgh, Scotland);
I've walked a good stretch of the fifty miles
Of beach we have running north,
Past cottages, parks, camps, etc.
We've way too many ***-holes;
And for many years,
We were featured on the ten dollar bill.

But the new houses!
Who is buying them as we move eastward,
Away from the lake and river?
Newly minted single moms;
Rejected men.
We lived in one house,
Once,
One house.
We now occupy five.
Two of which
Are too far away
From Chemical Valley.

Does it really matter
What color you are;
Where you're born,
That you've come far,
What belief you hold on the afterlife.
Did you live in luxury,
Where you steeled in strife.
Our babies grasp onto our backs,
Stroke their cheeks,
See them react.
Tap my knee,
My leg will kick;
Show your teeth,
I'll snarl back.
That's how I survive.
I like to stay alive.
I have many tribes.
I plan tomorrow,
Should it not arrive,
I'll leave life knowing,
I stayed alive.

Did you know tans are anti-cultural.
The whiter shades of pale are chic.
Black skirts and dark shoes
Will highlight your commitment
To culture.
White's the new brown.

The Jazz Singer is pitchy.
Oh, Mammy!
The shade's wrong.

Apple peels of burned skin,
Unbroken, curly:
Who can skin the longest
Down to the fresh, unburned dermis.
We didn't know about culture
As we watusied across the sand.

Good morning, Dear Wife,
The only love of my life.
The sun's not yet up,
I'll go brew us a cup;
So, stay snug in our bed,
And I'll bring it up
With a bite that's enough,
Till you're ready to rise
With those gorgeous green eyes,
And join me this day,
And all days I do pray,
Till we rise up no more.

They believe I did it,
They saw it in my eyes;
But I didn't really do it,
You know the kind of lie.

I simply compromised;
And so, I didn't do it;
But I know I lied I did,
Have you used this disguise?
Caught up in your silly lie?

It started out sincerely,
I really meant to do it;
I had the plan in place,
It took me by surprise.

I honestly didn't do it,
And they believe I did;
But I know I didn't do it,
And I can't ****** answer, *Why?

I got stuck on Skye;
There were many
Reasons why.
The ring of mountains
Walled me in,
The blue above
Was closer then,
The blue around
Was too deep,
And the whiskey
Was smooth and cheap.
The chatter of the lads
Was keen;
The beauty of the lass,
Serene.
Yes, I got stuck on Skye,
Managed to get off
Before I died.

I want to dance with you again,
Before the light descends;
Dance, the troubadour sang:

     Dance me to the end of love.

Place yours in mine,
We'll wind with time;
Repose your head, close your eyes,
I'll hear you breathe another goodbye.
Can't you dance with me again.

I'm spinning off this elliptic world;
Holding the dark side of my moon,
Orbiting 'round this star lit room.
Waxing on the upbeat,
Waning on the down,
Dancing on a gyroscope,
Through phases round and round.

I awaken, tapping toes,
And humming in the after glow.

Yes, I danced with you!
Did I dance with you?
I didn't dance with you.
And never will again.

I can't recall being born,
The cuddled snug of being warm
Beneath a roof so weathered
On a seasoned flax-mill farm.

I've an inkling of being two,
In a scene played out by me and you;
On a mattress, in the sun -
A new-born cried, and died too soon.

Then memory's blur cleared by three,
We sailed away on the Irish Sea
On a listing boat, across the Blue,
The last link to the last banshee.

By four we'd long since slammed the door,
And I knew cowboys and Celtic lore -
A new-born cried, she died too soon,
The eye peeped through the Judas door.

By five so many had left the home;
By eight a.m. we were left alone
Pushing prams, swings and forward,
No T.V.,  radio or telephone.

At last, by six, I clearned the webs,
A whole new world lay dead ahead -
A new-born cried, he died too soon;
By seven I'd internalized
The dreaded finality
Borne by the dead.
.

I want a flag,
A serious flag is required.
Banners, ribbons and semaphore
Are the poems.
I want the flag
With red for alerting distractions,
With all rainbows,
All.
And though it will flap
With some fearsomeness,
The ******* double cross
Circled with olympian rings.
And a white flag emerges.
Eye white.
Naturally I hoist it,
And surrender.
Under interrogation
I spill my guts.

A male child born, ***-wise,
His mind not made-up,
Not by a long shot.
He needs time to grow,
For now he could dress
Like Oscar Wilde,
Anyway's good for this child.
At six he follows
Male role models,
So confused.
Dysphoria soon insists,
Sets in to ambiguity,
Leading him to his feminine side,
Where her gender surely resides.

I left Jim at Two Amigos
Sitting at the bar,
Stick-handling a coaster.
He was a hockey star,
Showed it when he smiled.

He tells stories
Of blood freezing on ice,
Jersey pulls and sweat,
Body checks and corners.
He circles the Zamboni,
On memory's icy mirror.
The crowds cheer Jim
To get off the ice,
Let the game begin.
He speeds his machine
To the far end doors,
Vanishing down the tunnel.

He's just ordered a double boiler-maker,
Stirs his whiskey with a swizzle-stick,
And slaps back another shot.

There's a Route 22 near you.
A licorice asphalt road,
Twisting as opposing currents of time,
With anticipation and apprehension,
From home, to unknowns,
From comfort to expectations.
A rural ribbon of signage,
And milestones.

I traveled mine yesterday,
In an overdue Spring,
From Melrose to Bright's Grove.
I writhe and bend with its winding,
Former times arise like heat waves;
Mirage puddles flood my head,
Always just out of reach.

I recalled hitchhiking through Warwick,
As I backtrack,
And almost stop
For one today on the curve
Where they sell the garden gnomes.
I once looked wryly at them
When waiting across the road.

Sprawling upright over the northern landscape,
Towards the Co-ops of Arkona,
And the beer store in Thedford,
Wind farms thrive like techno giants,
In a mutant Utopian world.

****** Mary's red sign no longer hangs
Outside the white house in Lobo,
Where she could bring you in touch
With your dead.
Poplar Hill's trees no longer snow in the summer,
The water wheels are seized, barns are exposed.
The lofts collapsed.

I had to stop near a culvert, to listen to the sound of run-off,
The melt reflecting the transition under the sun,
Converging at Black Creek, Pulse Creek, or Cow Creek,
Carrying forward to the St. Clair River and Lake Huron,
Then onward and back.

Weathered iron fences enclose pioneer graves;
Settlers who cleared the dense Lambton forests,
And made the first ruts along my way,
With wagonfuls of backache.
I know well how you fared on our Route.

It's an asset to  be taciturn,
Reticent, laconic, terse,
And to the point.
I consider myself such,
So listen...
Do I have a story for you.
It was a dark and stormy night;
The wind howled destruction
Coming across...

This ride I'm on
Leads to the dump.
I, refuse that I am,
Refuse to jump.
I ride with
Peels of poor me,
Rinds of regret,
Scraps of resentment,
Empty bottles
Of pain
And emptiness.
I, Drunk.
I drank
For forgetfulness,
In misery and anger.
Refusing questions,
Not giving answers.
I don't need
To hitch a ride
To the human dump,
The soppy landfill.
At any stop
I can jump.
Jump,
And walk.

On Life's superhighway,
I'm parked on the shoulder.

If all the world's a stage,
I'm an understudy
In the wings.

If one's reach
Should excede one's grasp,
I'm arthritic.

If the world is your oyster,
I'm the irritating
Grain of sand.

If a man's stature
Isn't measured by his height,
Call me a Hobbit.

If actions speak louder than words,
I'm mute, and probably dumb.

If a penny saved is a penny earned,
I'm bankrupt.

If good things comes
To those who wait,
Save my place in line.

If beauty is in
The eye of the beholder,
I'm myopic.

If absence makes
The heart grow fonder,
Why did you buy
A one-way ticket?

If a bird in the hand
Is worth two in the bush,
I hunt Ostrich.

A mind is a terrible thing
To waste...
A mime... eh!

If brains are better
Then brawn,
Tell the big, dumb bully.

A drowning man may
Clutch at straws,
But where he's going
There's no milkshake.

If actions
Speak louder than words,
I'm mute and stationary.

If Hope springs eternal,
Then Spring is eternal Hope.

Every night is Saturday,
Every Monday's Sunday.
If Tuesday is my lieu day,
Then Wednesday is my luncheon meeting.
Thursdays are long coffee breaks,
And Fridays are my Personal Days.
Saturdays are Saturdays,
And ****,
It might begin again.

A hapless Lit student named Brandon,
Was researching Death of a Salesman;
He Googled then ogled
What Hap Loman called Strudel,
Then choked on his oral exam.

Roses are red,
My carnations are too...

I have declared a detente
After negotiating a truce.
My head is a no-fly zone;
The bombadier chutes stay shut.
I sat at the table
With my privy council,
And we have signed an accord.
Peace in my time.
Peace in my mind.
Forget, to forgive;
Forgive, to forget.
It seeps unmeasurable,
Infectious,
Air borne as a nucleur summer.

I am a cliche poet.
I compare most of your parts
To the cosmos;
I refer to love as immortal,
The soul as ethereal,
The spirit as bird-like,
Death as a cave, surely dark and lonely,
And nature has a magnificient part
With all its pathetic fallacies,
Sunrises, sunsets, tides.
I once compared a man's legs
To an aerial roadmap,
And a ***** to a bull frog
In the Savanah.
O, the crosses I've borne to explain saying
I love you
Without sounding trite.
I may resort to prose
And dress up the poetric mantra.

Teach me  about anatomy
And cosmology,
So I can understand
The universe
In your eyes.

Words That Rhyme With Trump

Lump:     as in ***** grabbing
****:    as in ***** grabbing
****:     as in his oversized ****
Plump:    as in his oversized ****
Frump:    as in his long red tie
Clump:    as in his vain comb-over
Grump:   as in his tweets: SAD SAD SAD
Chump:   as in the electorate
Slump:    as in his popularity
Stump:    as in understanding Unishid Sshtashs
Dump:    as in the Mid-terms

Mugwump: as in this word speaks for itself.

I was hanged once. Seriously. Hanged.
If you can believe it.
Stupidly and innocently the rope was
Slipped over my head.
The waggon was pushed out,
Suspending me twisting slowly turning
With untied hands. Can you see me?
I was as good as gone.
You'll have to believe me.
Take my word.
You can't look it up.
Seriously.
You can't find any account.
Nobody reported it.
All the same.
I was hanged.
Left like Eastwood.

But, then we were opaque.
Not like now,
With clicking phones.
There aren't enough incarnate spirits
To be snatched away by the number of photos.
Everything is snapped.
Everyone should shudder.
If you think with a click you're good to go,
You're good as gone.
As reported.

What do Trump
And Y2K have in common?
Some.
One's a whimper,
The other a bang.
One was simple,
The other, orangutan.
Both, misleading.

You can't remember where
Your buried treasures lie;
It's been years
Since you turned the earth,
Measured the wealth,
Stored it for days of leisure.
You lost the life mapped
With the X.
Why?
Did you mark the spot with G,
Or did you sell the  plunder?
Remember, you're no younger.
All your troves,
Blue ribbons and bows,
The buttons, the pins,
Your souveniers and sins
Have left you bankrupt.
I'm not a parrot keeper,
Can't curl my lip like Elvis;
Or sail into bays
To recover lost treasures.

Who am I?
I'm a piece of work.
A block of marble,
A chip of rock.
A driftwood face,
Waiting near a dock.
A song without refrain,
You won't sing again.
A pattern, pinned for sewing,
A garment good for stowing.
A man in queue,
Looking back at you.
A canvas smeared in gesso,
Leaning near a frame.
A sonnet missing
A rhyming couplet,
An octave and a sestet.
I am
A work in progress

The Little King,
Who ruled here for thirteen years,
Now reigns in the undiscovered country.
Restrictions keep him in the freezer,
Where he's
Lying in steak.

I bought a ticket
For a friend;
Do I really
Want him to win.
     Is this what one
     Calls a sin?
     Venial, mortal,

Let's crank it up a notch.
Let's involve the cops,
Or the color of your skin.
     Is this what one
     Calls sin?
     Cardinal, deadly.

Let's raise the ante.
Say you're near the body
Lying on the floor,
The evidence is clear,
You're the next of kin.
     Is this what one
     Calls sin?

Wherein is the sin?

My friend kept all the winnings.
Cops are on the take.
Our brother's in the gutter,
Our confession came too late.
Our sins are mere mistakes:
At worst call me ingrate.

…out of the mouths of Babes...

Everything comes to those who wait.
Even a worm will turn.
If wealth is lost, nothing is lost. If health is lost, something is lost.
     If character is lost, all is lost.
If knowledge is power, how did he become POTUS?
Love of money is the root of all kinds of evil.
Tell me who your friends are, and I'll tell you who you are.
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
There is no shame in not knowing; the shame is in not finding out.
A penny for his thoughts is price fixing.
As you make your bed, so must you lie in it. Don't wash your *****
     sheets in public.
Empty vessels make the most noise.
Every man has his price.
People who live in glass houses should keep their pants up.
Shrouds have no pockets.
The Devil looks after his own.
To err is human, to forgive... Meh!
What goes up must come down.
You are what you eat (hambuglers?)
Let the punishment fit the crime.
It is better to smarter than you appear, than to appear smarter
     than you are.
If you lie down with the dogs, you get up with the fleas.
Money earned by deceit, goes by deceit.
Open confession is good for the soul.
Patience is a virtue.
Behind every great man, there is a woman being paid off.
Ask my companions if I be a thief.
All roads lead to imprisonment.
If a job is worth doing, it's worth doing well.
The big apple is rotten to the Corps (a soldier's lament)
A journey of a lifetime begins with a subpoena.
The chain of command is only as strong as its weakest ****.
He who pays the ******, rents the room.
It takes a hundred lies to cover one lie.
It's hard to juggle sand.
**** the chicken to scare the monkey.
Like father, like son.
No man can serve two masters.
One may as well be hanged for sheep as well as lamb.
Nothing is certain but death and Tax Returns.
No rest for the wicked.
Russians make strange bedfellows.
Give a man enough tie and he'll hang himself.
Fences make bad politics.
Little things please little minds.
Fish always stink from the head downwards.
From the sublime to the ridiculous is only two questions:
     What did you know? When did you know it?
The truth will out.
The longest day must have an end.
Pride comes before the fall (so do a lot of other deadly sins)
Put your money where my mouth is (S.D.)

     Red tie at night. Donny's delight.
     Red tie at morning. Stormy gives warning.

Seek and ye shall find.
Speak as you find.
Out of sight. Out of mind.