Bus poems are shorties written on the way home,
riding the M31 thru Manhattan. Often silly, often not...

There is a contest that does not involve my P.S.F.
(Preferred Sport Franchise) this weekend,
truly don't give a good ****** who wins,
but that is no excuse to deny me my sir sore-losing,
victim status,
so richly deserved.

A triumvirate of doctor, g.f. and medical tests,
have on the field ruled,
once a year, a conjugal visit permitted,
tween my arteries and chicken wings.

there will pigs in blankets demanding attention,
potato knishes, and cole slaw juices,  and a
foreign dignitary, Sayyid Cous-Cous,
lining up along side the quarterback  who will be
'winging' honey and spicy passes to his favorite receiver,
this couch coach and impartial observer.

This is my Sunday fare.
If insufficiently highbrow,
for all you poetic aesthetes,
have no fear,
this athlete gastronomic,,
victim of his victuals,
will prepare mentally
by hanging with King Lear once more,
sharing a verbal tasting menu,
the day prior,
who once called me,
at a Giant super bowl party,

“A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a
base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited,
hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a
lily-livered, action-taking knave, a whoreson,
glass-gazing, super-serviceable finical rogue;
one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a
bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but
the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar,
and the son and heir of a mongrel *****: one whom I
will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deniest
the least syllable of thy addition.”*
― William Shakespeare, King Lear