I'm in a special chamber which deadens every sound,
I began to grow more anxious with no decibels around.
I've spent my life connected, on the web and on the phone.
to be cut off without a dial tone; I've seldom felt this all alone.
I am lost, without a signal, uneasy in my skin.
I'm wanting to be anywhere except the place I'm in.
Was it like this for my mother? she lived stone deaf for years.
I was foolish to think blindness worse than deafness in my fears.
There are places were a body floats without the sense of touch.
The tests' subjects hallucinate,I wouldn't like that much.
Noise is fun, noise is good, I need noise, it appears,
to distract me from those whispered truths I do not wish to hear.

This time the French have gone too far! This will not stand, you hear!
The makers of “Méthode Champenoise” are suing Miller beer.
For years their spies have regularly infiltrated in the States,
suing all who dare mislabel bubbly made from grapes.
(We cannot call the sparkling wines produced on our own shores
“champagne” according to long, well established, laws.)
Fines and penalties are paid for breaking those mandates
Although to me it seems to be a case of sour grapes.
Today their spy was shopping for a piece of camembert
When he spied a Miller ad for “the champagne of bottled beers”
“Sacre Bleu” the Frenchman cried! “what sacrilege is here?.”
How dare these “Millers” to compare our drink with bottled beer.
They seized the product off the shelf to (ahem) do some testing.
I hear it knocked Jacques on his *** but he claims he’s just resting.

Sitting by the fireside and gazing at the flames,
a crystal glass of sherry in my hand,
My thoughts drift back, to a different time and place
when I was still a boy, not yet a man.

I remember you were patient when I did not understand
math problems that came easily to you.
I remember stories read to me before the lights went out.
You shared your love of books; I love them too.

I remember when I made you proud, in ways that children do
I remember, with some sadness, times I disappointed you.
Sometimes I'll use a turn of phrase when speaking to my child
and realize that my words are both your substance and your style.

I will not see your like again, here, in this vale of tears.
but I remember that you loved me; that sustains me through the years.
and when this fire burns to ash, as it is wont to do,
they'll bear me to the sacred place, returning me  to you.

In the bowels of a prison, in a tomb of concrete, for twenty three hours a day-
The “Teflon Don” was alone all that time, free only to scream, curse, or pray.
To seek refuge in madness most men would resort, but that was not John Gotti’s way.
He was chained when he showered; by the guards he called cowards,
he saw the Sun seldom these days.

His mind oft would drift back to better days at the Bergin hunt and fish-
Playing cards with friends and cronies who indulged his every wish..
He recalled how he rose to be Don; it was a blood drenched throne,
but, unlike his predecessor, he would die slowly and alone

Cancer took his lower jaw; he gummed what food he ate.
Four grey walls surrounded him, the door an iron gate.
His tumor soon metastasized; that death was imminent was plain.
Although John Gotti was in agony he took nothing for the pain.

He would not chance a mental lapse, a confession overheard.
He would not give the ******* that; he would not say a word.
He died choking on his own blood, his corpse lay still and cold.
It was then, and only then, the Feds released their hold

Lillian Caine was the young lady’s name.
She was a romantic at heart.
She was painfully thin with a wart on her chin,
and stood tall at the end of the line.
Little Jim Coke was a short little bloke,
A cherub like smile his chief charm
He soon won her heart, they were seldom apart,
They looked like a “10” arm in arm.
Lillian thought they were destined to wed;
Her dear little Jim thought the same.
When they wed they became,
by their hyphenated last name,
Mr. & Mrs. Coke-Caine

A beautiful smile and flawless skin; Youth is a gift, we’ve all been told.
Your sparkling eyes, your jet black hair are blessings of nature to behold.
Your gentle temper and modest dress do both enhance your loveliness.
You’re “picture perfect” so strike a pose for images do not grow old.
Still, the dance of Time won’t end for these pretty ladies from ** Chi Minh
until Time robs them of this and more. I’ve seen that thief steal youth before.

Twelve years; has it been as long as that?
I’m conscious of the grey that streaks my hair.
She, however, seems just as I remember
As the day before that day she wasn’t there.
There are no ties that bind me to this woman.
There are no banns that tie her to this man.
This was, of course, an accidental meeting.
Her leaving cut me far too deep to care.
Yet her eyes search mine as if to question
If an ember in the ashes smolders there