There is ***** for sale and wombs for rent
For same *** couples it’s cash well spent.
While heterosexuals breed their own
Gay couples, as yet, cannot clone.
A lesbian couple who had the itch
is suing their ***** bank for “bait and switch”.
They wanted a Caucasian baby
and had requested ***** from vial “380”.
The donor of that ***** was white,
Handsome, smart, just “not their type”
They were given another’s ***** instead
And an interracial child was bred.
It seems they were given vial “330”
The vials, it seems, were marked unclearly.
An honest mistake by a nearsighted boomer?-
or one with a twisted sense of humor?
A civil suit will go to trial
seeking damages for a mixed race child.
If their motion to dismiss should meet denial
The “bank” will suffer premature withdrawal.
In which event bankruptcy looms
For the bank that supplies the ***** for wombs.

It was protracted suicide
Poe, dead before his time.
At the end he sold his clothes for drink
He was found the worse for wine.
A horror, like the tales he'd spun,
mad visions stalked his days.
This master of the Macabre
this day found a common grave.
No Raven croaked as he lost hope
of an earthly parole.
His doctor heard his final words:
"Lord, please save my poor soul."

In Mystic they have built a park in honor of the memory
of Grace McDonnell who was killed at Sandy Hook Elementary.
Elsewhere in Connecticut are playgrounds built to honor them;
the children and the teachers slain, so that we will remember when.
These innocents we could not save have playgrounds where they never played.
These bittersweet memorial parks are a sad remembrance of that day.
We saw their pictures, heard their names, our hearts brimmed full with sad remorse.
For twenty six children who were killed before their lives could run their course.

There are so many others dead, lost lives that we don’t celebrate;
56 million at last count- not one playground in any State.
There are few pictures, they have no names, their humanity; denied of course.
Inconvenient little lives put down like dogs with no remorse.
How different would our nation be? Perhaps a touch less old and gray?
Instead we have built playgrounds where far fewer children get to play.

I’m not considered “normal” by policemen on the force.
They apprehended me in public having an*l *******.
From early on I’ve always been attracted to a certain sort of man.
I’ve tried to be with women but that’s not just who I am.

Condemned as an “abnormal”, my security clearance lost,
considered an Enigma and somewhat an albatross.
In war I was a hero in the cryptanalytic game.
Now those doors are closed to me and others just the same.

So much I have accomplished, yet much remains undone.
Their chemicals have unmanned me so this capsule on my tongue
Once crushed with bring oblivion with its bitter almond taste.
The destruction of a once great man, will someone rue the waste?

The poor you will always have with you-
We incent them to make more besides.
Then too, there’s the risk of inbreeding
as collective I.Q. starts to slide.
It started when life got too easy
and so many made Lazy their way.
Why bust your ***** and hustle?-
Others sit on theirs home every day.
It’s been noted that Democracy’s shelf life
is limited from its first day.
It begins to collapse when the people
elect demagogues who give stuff away.
People who vote for a living
outbreeding those who work for pay?
The results aren’t going to be pretty,
This tragedy ends just one way.

Lord Elgin of Britain, that perfidious thief,
robbed Greece of its heritage, its marble reliefs.
The Parthenon stripped of its decorative stone,
a victim of rapine stands forlorn and alone.
Phidias’ statues, rendered so fine,
Are lifelike and glorious for now and all time.
The British museum houses the collection
Which Elgin purloined while avoiding detection.
Greece, more than most, has been robbed of its past
By ephemeral empires who thought they would last.
Now that the sun sets on the imperial throne
Isn’t it time that those Marbles went home?

Her fingers are good, she can sew, she can thread.
She has time on her hands, now that her husband is dead.
Lillian Weber is past ninety nine,
she’s on her last mission in a race against time.
She makes dresses for young girls that she’ll never meet;
colorful frocks for the African heat.
Her goal is one thousand dresses, so fine,
by the day that she’ll celebrate for the 100th time.