A famous quote by Gertrude Stein
Is one I can abide.
It says that, “We are always
The” (exact) “same age inside.”

A film on Leonard Cohen I saw
Embraces this belief,
For age and all its facets
Is a dominant motif.

Performances of famous songs
Are featured back to back
By Cohen in youth and middle age
And on the senior track.

His passion never waivers;
He retains his slender frame
And his voice and repartee remain
Remarkably the same.

We can’t explain to someone young
That what our age does hide
Is all that makes us who we are,
Tucked, safe and sound, inside.

Overheard outside the store,
Mother to her son,
"If it ain't a dollar..."
That's the sentence she'd begun.

You can figure out the rest,
Knowing what would fit -
"If it ain't a dollar, well,
Then you're not gettin' it."

Was the kid upset? No way;
He'd heard that line before.
He shrugged and went to check it out
Inside the dollar store.

I guess in this economy,
There'd be no risk in bettin'
That many things for lots of bucks
A lot of kids ain't gettin'.

A building used to stand where now
A vacant lot exists,
Each scattered brick a remnant
Of the past that still persists.

Inhabitants were once ensconced
Within the phantom walls,
Who climbed the stairs each day and
Trudged along in dim-lit halls.

Aromas of assorted meals
Would waft from twice-locked doors,
Occasionally drifting
Up and down to different floors.

The blare of old-time TV shows
Would mingle with the noise
Of conversations or the thumps
Of raucous girls and boys.

But all is still and quiet now;
The vacant lot’s been sapped
Of all the lives that it once held,
Their joys and worries scrapped.

It bides its time, for very soon
Construction will begin
And walls will rise exactly where
The former ones have been.

Yesterday I was in Rome,
The end of a vacation.
Today, though, I awoke at home,
All thanks to aviation.

I tracked my flight upon the map,
The little arrow moving
And didn’t take a single nap,
The choice of films improving.

They served two meals, a snack as well,
Plus drinks for our imbibing.
The hours slipped by, as you can tell
From what I’ve been describing.

The flight was smooth, the hassles few;
No turbulence or rocking,
Though sure enough, and right on cue,
Some jet lag’s come a’knocking.

Here’s a start: a candy heart
Or long-stemmed bright-red roses;
Lingerie, to make her day
Romantic, one supposes.

Not too hard to find a card
With sentimental saying.
For a treat, go out to eat
(And naturally, you’re paying).

Better yet, go into debt
And buy a sparkly trinket.
Dim the lights, so appetites
Include champagne – then drink it.

Or, don’t fuss and be like us –
With years of love behind us,
We’ve agreed, we do not need
A token to remind us.

Two penguin parents and their chick
Are bringing people ‘round
To ogle at their lifestyle
And the happiness they’ve found.

Australians are delighted
At the airing of this tale
For the parents, Sphen and Magic,
Are both penguins who are male.

Their obvious affection
Led their keepers to decide
To entrust them with an egg
Neglectful parents did provide.

They built a nest and alternated
Sitting ‘til it hatched,
Each spending near a month, a time
No other penguins matched.

Though humans often battle
Over whether gays should wed,
They should look to Sphen and Magic,
Seeing what their love has bred.

The Holland Tunnel’s gussied up.
Its holiday display
Made some commuters angry
And they finally had their say.

Two wreaths were boldly planted
On the “O” and on the “U,”
So “Holland Tonnel’s” what appeared
To people driving through.

A Christmas tree was mounted, too,
On top of Holland’s “N.”
The “A” would be a better match,
The critics voiced again.

The ones in charge arranged a vote;
Results were tallied fast,
The decorations switched around
From the opinions cast.

The tree was moved, one wreath is gone;
There’s now a happy aura,
Which would be perfect if they had
Included a menorah!

symbol of Chanukah, a Jewish holiday
celebrated at this time of year

Anyone can write a poem
And think that it’s fantastic
Though often others may be slightly
Less enthusiastic.

For inner critics sometimes fail
To note that something’s missing
And few admit their efforts
Might, in fact, be worth dismissing.

And so the world is filled with poems,
Most internet-inspired,
Where talent is an asset
Neither looked-for nor required.

Of course, since I am one who writes,
You may think I’ve concluded
That I’m just like all the others
But then you would be deluded!

Other poets write of love
Or beauty, anguish, death;
Of yearning, angst or pity
Tangled up in every breath.

Other poets use their words
As weapons or as shields,
Gauging by reactions
All the power writing yields.

Other poets elevate
Their subjects way up high,
Seeking truth or explanations,
Answers to their aching “Why?”

I, though, on the other hand,
Just write what I observe –
The daily challenges in life
We do or don’t deserve.

Other poets’ lofty thoughts
May, more than mine, be read,
But I’ll continue rhyming
Like I always do, instead.

I am a curled up comma
When I sleep, so give me pause.
I’m sentenced to insomnia
Which grips me in its clause.

I’m subject to a poor night’s rest;
That’s predicated on
The fact that I have tossed and turned
Each night that’s come and gone.

Don’t question if I’m in control
Or I’ll get out of joint
And answer very forcefully
With exclamation point.

The night’s a restless period
And though I barely sleep,
My colon and its semi-friends
My secrets somehow keep.

Plan on online purchase?
Well, just click on the reviews.
It helps to hear what people say –
What have you got to lose?

Your mind, perhaps, for you’ll find out
Opinions vary widely,
From those described most glowingly
To others penned most snidely.

The bar graph gives percentages
Of how the ratings fare
So follow the conclusions
Or reject them, if you dare.

For everyone’s impressions
Will be different and distinct
And those who thus ignore them
Will be very soon extinct.

I'm ready for some music;
The radio's all set,
But begging me for money
Is all that I can get.

The pleading is relentless,
Yet does beseeching serve?
For constant supplications
Really get on my last nerve.

To turn off their entreaties,
Subtle as a striking sledge,
I simply switch the station;
No allegiance will I pledge.

I believed Anita Hill;
So did all my friends.
History repeats itself;
We know how it ends.

Watching makes my stomach turn
For loyalists won’t budge
And thus the Court will have on board
Another suspect judge.

It really isn’t a surprise
When those in our regime
Distort the truth with consequences,
In this case, Supreme.

When traveling, the lives I see
Are different from my own,
The choices made unlike the ones
That I have ever known.

It's really not a question of
What's better or what's worse,
Though if you questioned others,
They might answer the reverse.

To me, I think our journeys,
Whether minuscule or long,
Encourage us to gravitate
To where we best belong.

So when I'm someplace else I note
The lovely things I see,
But know the lifestyle that I chose
Works perfectly for me.

Within my bags of quilting stuff
Are lots of little scraps,
The remnants of some projects
Which I saved, thinking perhaps…

I would use them in the future
Like they once did long ago
When they gathered snips of fabric
And a patchwork quilt they’d sew.

It was done then from necessity
So nothing went to waste
And I’m sure that many beds
With scrap-made blankets have been graced.

But realistically I realized,
Without patience or privation,
I should ditch these scraps for my idea
Was just a fabrication.

An Op-Ed in The New York Times,
Anonymously printed,
States that the White House mood is worse
Than what the press has hinted.

The President’s “amoral,”
And “erratic,” it declares,
With “ill-informed decisions”
Catching staffers unawares.

The author, an official
In the Trump administration,
Is hoping that what he reveals
Will jolt awake the nation.

Asserting he and others
Are resisting from within,
He wants the world to know
That what he claims is not just spin.

The President is seething now
With Tweeting calls of “Treason?”
Denouncing, too, The Times, for holding
Names back for no reason.

As speculation builds, so many
Choices would make sense.
There’s even talk the writer
May be Trump’s VP – Mike Pence.

Whoever wrote the piece, though,
Is a brave and daring soul
And hopefully, he’ll shake
Some people up, which was his goal.

A cart selling hot dogs and such
Was suddenly sharp to the touch
Because thousands of bees,
Eschewing Chinese,
Thought a frank they would like very much.

They swarmed to the top of the stand
So a cop, likely one in command,
Ordered all off the street
So the bees could retreat
But that’s not what the stingers had planned.

Thus an officer, bee-suit attired,
Soon appeared with the tool he required
And his vacuum did ****
All the bees it could pluck
With finesse that onlookers admired.

New Yorkers find stuff like this funny
And likely would bet even money
That soon that same cart,
If its owner is smart,
Would be selling you hot dogs with honey!

I’m at a loss
Why Betsy DeVos
Wants money for weapons in school.
Though she is the boss
Her thoughts come across
As those (to my ears) of a fool.

For federal cash
From Congress’ stash
Is meant more for teachers and books
And guns seem to clash
With the aim of that cache,
Which should be out of reach of her hooks.

I yearn for the days
When such folly would raise
More than eyebrows in government halls,
But today there is praise
For this armament craze
And we watch as normality falls.

Sitting on a shady bench,
I watch the people pass -
Every shape and color,
Strolling sweatily en masse.

Shirtless daddies, many fat,
With bellies hanging out,
Arms and legs and backs tattooed
(And other parts, no doubt).

Moms deciding where to go,
Cajoling tots in line;
Babies, toddlers, school-age kids
In every stage of whine.

Heat pours down and patience frays.
Wait! Here's a parade.
Cookie Monster, Ernie, Bert
And Oscar make the grade.

Then it's back to water slides
And one more carousel.
Squeals and shrieks of joy erupt -
It's fun! (or can't you tell?)

Hungry! Thirsty! Feed me now!
Nacho stand is closed.
See the stress within the smiles
Of pictures poorly posed.

Still, the fam's together
And we're mostly having fun.
I check my watch - 6 hours left
Until this day is done.

Today the Queen of Soul has passed
And all the fans she has amassed
Feel saddened by this latest news,
Since she was one we hate to lose.

As listeners, we did rejoice
When hearing her distinctive voice
And she's the person, I suspect,
We think of with the word "Respect."

For R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Shouted out, we'd all agree,
Says it all, what we all need
In life, in order to succeed.

Aretha sang it loud and strong.
She made an anthem of that song
And no one has improved it yet;
In tribute, we will not forget.

(to the tune of "Love and Marriage")

Trump and Putin, Trump and Putin -
Both seem oh-so-very highfalutin,
With such praises gushin.'
(Though who knows what was said in Russian?)

Trump and Putin, Trump and Putin -
When you see them, you should start salutin.'
Since they both love power,
Admiration we should shower.

Why, why, why then do we hate them?
Just pick a reason.
Lie, lie, lie to us until we think
It must be treason.

Trump and Putin, Trump and Putin -
If you think they're bad, you're right, **** tootin.'
Hawks of likewise feather
And I would bet that their duet
Has no Nyet yet - Bullies together!

In London, the crowds got to swoon
At a 20-foot orange balloon
Of a baby, quite plump,
Looking very like Trump
As he often appears – a buffoon.

His huge mouth is agape with a scream,
Surely spouting a foul-sounding theme
And his little hand grasps
What inspires some gasps –
That’s his phone, with its Twitter-type stream.

So the “welcome” the planners conceived
And that Londoners thereby achieved
Was a slap in the face
Bringing Donald disgrace
And the chance to see how he’s perceived.

Hey, Scott Pruitt!
We all knew it
Soon would come to this.

Rumors flew; it
Seemed you blew it.
Truth you would dismiss.

Anger’d brew; it
Looked like, “***** it!”
Were the words you’d hiss.

You’d pooh-pooh it
As on view it
Seemed you were amiss.

How’d you do it?
Breeze right through it,
Seemingly in bliss?

Well, Scott Pruitt,
Now boo-hoo it!
You we will not miss!

Trump’s head of the EPA

I wonder, as we near the 4th of July,
If the British take note, with a sonorous sigh,
Regretting the fact of the colonies lost
All those long years ago at a terrible cost.

In light of political forces today,
I think it’s more likely that what they would say
Is, “Whew! We were lucky we cut off those ties
And we thought that their accents were all to despise!”

You don’t need fancy toys or food
To entertain your friends or brood,
Just lots of real attention paid
To reinforce connections made.

For love is felt when it goes deep
And every kinship that you keep
Will thrive when nurtured like a plant;
Indifference, though, will disenchant.

Forget the showy gifts and treats.
Affection paired with time completes
Attachments goods cannot replace;
The truth in this we should embrace.

Right before a suicide
Might something have been said
To keep that person on this side
Of life, instead of dead?

We hear about the famous ones
Who seemed to have it made,
Yet even they succumbed despite
The talents they displayed.

Inside each person’s head there is
A privileged domain
Which holds a private treasury
Of suffering and pain.

I guess that when it overflows
Its owner cannot cope
And suicide is what takes place
When anguish crushes hope.

I wish that I could just erase
The lines and wrinkles on my face
And also all that sagging skin
That proves which decade I am in.

When women crow, so smug with pride,
About their age, which they won’t hide,
I think, “Yeah, right! I’m really sold
On how much you like looking old!”

I won’t get face-lift surgery
And it would not be perjury
To say that Botox ain’t my thing,
Despite the smoothness it would bring.

So I will bear my aging mien,
Accepting that the senior scene
Is where, at my age, I must be,
But I’d prefer it mirror-free!

Berlin's a place that contradicts -
It's vibrant, but it's haunting,
The paradigm of hipness, with
A history most daunting.

The damage done in World War II
Reduced it to a rubble
And then the famous wall went up,
Which led to years of trouble.

You can't forget (and never should)
The **** reign of terror.
Memorials abound atoning
For that awful era.

Yet everything has been restored.
You won't see ancient buildings,
But modern takes of what was lost,
Replete with domes and gildings.

This is a city worth a trip,
With coolness overriding,
Defiant that to all the world
Its past will not be hiding.

Where we live and what we do
Are choices made without a clue
If we will thrive at home or work;
We cannot know what problems lurk.

Decisions made when we are young,
Some based on plans to which we’ve clung,
May work out just the way we’d hoped
Despite some pitfalls never scoped.

Yet other picks may not pan out
And leave us filled with dread or doubt.
Of those selections, most will curse them;
It takes courage to reverse them.

Age makes hindsight crystal clear
So regrets may thus appear,
But since magic we do lack,
There simply is no going back.

Watch the rock and rollers
With their bellies and their wigs,
Playing songs performed at
Oh-so-many early gigs.

The keyboards and guitars still sound
Real good, though maybe slower
Yet their voices simply cannot reach
The high range or the lower.

Blown-up photos from the past,
Not meaning to, are mocking
Their current selves who do their best
To do their roll and rocking.

The audience, all old as well,
Belt out, with zeal and passion,
The lyrics they remember
From when tie-dye was in fashion.

The music bubbles in my blood;
I watch and I’m transported,
But find it sad attempts to bring
The past to life are thwarted.

*Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

The thing about a scarf is that
I know just how to buy one
But I don’t do it often ‘cause
I’m clueless how to tie one.

My friends look chic and classy
With a scarf around their throats.
For hiding saggy skin like mine
That style gets all my votes.

A neck stays warm when breezes blow
If it is scarf-protected
And sometimes boring outfits,
With a scarf, can be corrected.

Yet somehow I have never learned
The skills that are required
To knot a scarf so that my neck’s
A place to be admired.

We’re either born with savoir-faire
And everyone can spot
That stylishness so cool and hip
Or else, like me, we’re not.

In Hamlet’s famed soliloquy,
“To be or” (maybe) “not to be,”
He questions life – is taking breath
A better deal than choosing death?

Another quote, among a slew,
Is this: “To thine own self be true,”
A brilliant and perceptive thought
Which few obey, though most are taught.

“We are such stuff as dreams are made on”
Actors cry on stages played on,
Which refers to both the play
And also to our lives each day.

Some Shakespeare gems to celebrate
His birthday, which was on this date.
Though some believe that’s all a sham,
I don’t! Am I a fan? Iamb!

Nestled 'neath an overpass
A homeless guy camps out.
I pass his tent each morning
On my exercising route.

He has a lovely river view
And has no rent to pay,
Although it isn't quite the place
Where I would like to stay.

I rarely see him, but today,
Unfortunate for me,
I caught him as he emptied out
His half-full jug of ***.

If ever you are tempted
To enjoy a river swim,
Heed my advice and find
Another venue for your whim.

This river's reputation
(Not a great one) stays intact
With this daily contribution
From a urinary tract!

You’re teaching a class
And in someone barges.
You want to protect
Both yourself and your charges.

So what do you do?
Grab your bucket of stones
And soon the intruder’s
A bucket of bones.

Your students can help
If they each grab a rock,
Assuming they aren’t
Immobile with shock.

Just think how effective
Such tactics can be!
We all can join in
On a stone-throwing spree!

Of course, if the trespasser’s
Wielding a gun,
The pupils (and you)
Might be tempted to run.

For certainly studies
(Most likely) have shown
A bullet’s more lethal
Than any thrown-stone.

And let’s not forget
There’s a lot here at stake.
An innocent guest
Could be ****** by mistake.

This foolish idea
A school district condoned.
Makes me wonder if they
Were in other ways ******.

Sometimes an image just sticks in your mind;
Try as you might you can’t leave it behind.
One I’ll relate didn’t happen to me
But hearing about it sufficed, as you’ll see.

A colleague of mine who had students in need
Sometimes paid a home visit to get up to speed,
For meeting the parents at home would provide
Information that they might be tempted to hide.

On one such occasion, who came to the door
Was the mother, whom he’d not encountered before.
She loomed there, obese, very much in command,
With a full stick of butter she clutched in her hand.

“Come in,” she insisted, and seemed quite at ease
Though what happened next near brought my friend to his knees.
It wasn’t the home’s disrepair, but the sight
Of that mom with her butter stick, taking a bite.

Whatever he thought of the mom and her kid
Doesn’t matter today, but I’ll never be rid
Of that image – the mother, the butter, the chew
And I’ll bet now that picture will stick with you, too.

While waiting for my MRI
And nervous, I will not deny,
The techies then guessed
That a music request
Might calm me, so I did comply.

I naturally chose rock & roll
Since being absorbed was my goal.
With my eyes tightly closed
All the words, I supposed,
Would keep butterflies under control.

So the clanging began, as it must
But the music helped, as we’d discussed
Though the very first song
Made my panic prolong –
Queen’s “Another One (me!) Bites the Dust.”

Some folks follow all the rules;
Others like to bend 'em,
Feeling like it's only fools
Who staunchly would defend 'em.

Which way that you lean begins
When you're just out of diapers.
Followers fear that their sins
Will make them pay the pipers.

Benders, though, might get a rush
From tempting fate and winning,
Even if they have a brush
With blame at the beginning.

We each know where we belong
When rules are in our faces
And since we all hate being wrong,
We never will change places.

At Newark Airport, Christie* tried
A quicker way to get inside,
Expecting they would let him slide;
Alas, though, entrance was denied.

The V.I.P. line he’d once used,
When cockiness from him just oozed,
Was blocked by police, but Christie mused
That he was just a bit confused.

For when the “mighty” tumble from
The lofty place from which they’ve come,
To our derision they succumb;
And sympathy? Not one small crumb.

*the former governor of New Jersey

Once in a while I wish I could dial
The day back to right where it started.
I’d then reconcile with things that did rile
And left me despondently-hearted.

It isn’t the norm but some days just swarm
With episodes rank and annoying
And in such a storm, it’s hard to transform
A dejection into something buoying.

Still, all things must pass and greener the grass
We will spot on our side of the fences.
We’ll relinquish the crass and begin, smooth as glass,
With a fresh start when morning commences.

When you walk into my classroom
Man, you'd better be prepared.
If your poodle ate your homework,
You might be a little scared.

'Cause I'm a pistol packing pedagogue.
My Colt is on my hip
And my trigger finger's itchy
So it's time to get a grip.

Better not be disrespectful
And forget it if you cheat.
No one messes with my lessons
'Cause I pack a little heat.

Yes, I'm a pistol packing pedagogue.
But do not be alarmed.
See they're paying me a bonus
If, inside my class, I'm armed.

It's a crazy world we live in
But I thank the NRA
And our president, for making me
What I've become today.

That's a pistol packing pedagogue.
You shouldn't be too shocked
For at least my gun, like this idea,
Is less than halfway cocked!

If Washington came back to life
I wonder how he’d feel
To be pictured on a quarter
And a dollar bill – surreal!

Abe Lincoln, too, would bust a gut
If he became alive,
To see his visage plastered
On a penny and a five.

And Alexander Hamilton,
If he could live again,
Would love the play about him
And his picture on the ten.

Had Andrew Jackson ditched his grave,
He’d likely argue plenty
About his image front and center
On our nation’s twenty.

Ben Franklin, though, would be real proud
If he came back to earth,
To find out that a hundred dollar bill
Proclaims his worth.

McKinley’s portrait graces
Money that we rarely use.
(I’ve never even seen that bill –
Five hundred smackeroos!)

Poor Jefferson, despite his wealth
And all he got to do,
Unfortunately got his mug
On the elusive two!

The pictures on our currency
Have long been set in place.
Thank goodness or our current prez
Would swap ‘em for his face.

This poem doesn’t want to get written.
It’s fighting with all that it’s got.
Apostrophes, commas,
Their daddies and mamas
Are joining to give it a shot.

I’m dragging each word that’s resisting
And plunking it down on the page.
So every letter
I’ve forced, with a fetter,
To take its place up on the stage.

This poem didn’t want to get written.
Its protests were ***** and loud
But the pencil I wield
Made hostilities yield
For the poet’s compulsion’s unbowed.

Dear United, tell me why
You will not let my peacock fly.
I’m really quite a worry wart
And Dexter gives me such support.

He also can do double duty
Gracing others with his beauty
When, because he is a male,
He spreads his most amazing tail.

It isn’t true, as some have said,
That if he’s spooked, his feathers shed
Or that he might get in the way
Of drinks you’re serving on a tray.

Now peacocks really are unique
And if we could hear Dexter speak
I’m sure that he would plead his case
And your concerns he’d thus erase.

However, if you don’t concede
To give me what I surely need,
My other pet can fit in coach –
It’s Fred, my hissing cockaroach!

a little poetic license on the spelling

This is how you write a poem:
Let your feelings flow.
Follow what your mind pours out
Wherever it may go.

Choose your words most carefully;
Try to not repeat.
Watch the rhythm but don't fret
About iambic feet.

Rhyme if rhyme is what you love
Though dangers sometimes lurk;
If your rhyming words sound forced
Your poem will just not work.

Anyone can write a poem;
Trying has no cost
But reality assures
We're not all Robert Frost.

I watch the morning people
Freshly showered and caffeined
As they head into their day
While somewhere all the fates convened…

Deciding who would sink or swim
Or who would rise above,
Whose health or job would suffer
Or who’d find that one true love.

Each daybreak holds such promise
But as hours tick away,
We realize most of life takes place
Where we have zero sway.

I watch the evening people
Trudging slowly home from work.
There they’ll prep to face tomorrow
Where the fates already lurk.

I like a peanut with a shell,
A cherry with a stem;
A church clock with a tolling bell,
A crown that's all a'gem.

I like my coffee steaming hot,
My bottled beer ice-cold;
A sharpened pencil set to jot,
An anecdote well-told.

I like a bed that's neatly made,
A day when breezes blow.
A tree with leaves providing shade,
A place where flowers grow.

I like to see a flock of sheep,
To hear a tinkling chime;
And most of all, I like to keep
My thoughts lined up in rhyme.

I'm sitting on the terrace
Of the condo of my aunt
And trying to enjoy the breeze
But sadly, I just can't.

For next door there's a neighbor
I can't see, behind the wall,
Yet his smoking habit somehow seems
To permeate us all.

He obviously steps outside
So all his inside air
Stays relatively clean; at least
The smoke won't hover there.

But what he doesn't think of
Is about the smoke he blows,
Or when it wafts exactly
Where it is that vapor goes.

If he would ask, I'd answer
'Cause no matter what he thinks,
It's invasive and intrusive
And to top it off, it stinks!

Some poems don’t get written
For the consequence might be
Rejection or dismissal
Of my thoughts or else of me.

I do not have the courage
To express the way I feel
When there may be questions raised
Of what my writing might reveal.

I can dance around the subject
With a vague and subtle clue
And I must admit I’ve done so
In a couple or a few.

But for certain topics there is just
No way to even start
So I keep the hurt inside me,
Tucked in tight inside my heart.

The corner store across the street
Was known for all its cuts of meat
But also it sold milk and bread
And other things you’d need instead.

On Friday mornings folks would flock
To sit on chairs among the stock
To hear the music on guitar
Of Uncle Junior (TV star).

The owner’s lived at my address
For more than forty years, I’d guess.
As neighbors we would nod and chat
Of Yankee games and this and that.

Today, in shock, while walking by,
An empty storefront met my eye.
I’d heard the rent went through the roof
And there before me was the proof.

Though times must change, it makes me sad
When touchstones that we’ve always had
Just disappear and are no more;
Farewell, my friendly corner store!

You need some gas? We'll, step right up
And pump it 'til you've had your fill
Unless you're in New Jersey, where
You best make sure you know the drill.

For it's the last remaining state
Where pumping gas is not allowed
Except for paid attendants and
Of this New Jerseyans are proud.

So even if you're in a rush,
You must sit in your car and wait
Until a service station guy
Can bother to accommodate.

And if you try to speed him up,
You'd better learn to zip your lip,
For then he'll wash your windshield,
Slowly, hoping to procure a tip.

When questioned why this law exists,
Which out-of-towners do detest,
A local politician said,
And I can just assume in jest:

Perhaps our Jersey diet
Full of greasy food's to blame;
Therefore, if we pump the gas ourselves,
We'll burst right into flame!