Pardon me waiter
But there's a fly in my soup
Doing the backstroke

You say I say
my wife

told me to stop
impersonating

a flamingo
I had to put my foot down

you see a sad face
but it's only a facade

I went shopping for some camouflage pants
but couldn't find any

the tears flow in puddles
but they are not that of a clown

why

you ask

because he already died
laughing

(rimshot)

the last time I heard that one
cars had fins

and scales

(honk honk}

I was wondering why the frisbee
kept getting bigger and bigger

and then it hit me
I keep staring at the phone

hoping you will call
and explain why you left

all those years ago

whit howland © 2021

I vow not to lose my mind because my underpants have been stolen
by gold-star dykers exposing for me to see purplish ******* swollen
midway between noses & bellies yet far above each impacted colon
in the casket of what putridly remains of Satanic slave Lloyd Nolan
who died not wrecked into a tree by a Julia-type as had Marc Bolan
after knocking up driver Gloria Jones, with whom he sunk a goal in
he croaked one last croak as fast as Henny Youngman told a joke in
betwixt Ed's toady laugh & the intro of Johnny's ******-guest token
never had there been mo' jive **** shat, visually projected & spoken
& articulated with mucho abandon disregard for busted toys broken
floorward, sonically disruptive enough to awake cadavers unwoken
& so loud as to shake the deadliest of unawakened corpses awoken,
conscious & alert like ****-******* New Jerseyites from Hoboken
who fled Hispaniola island in strung-together rafts of pine & oaken
that groaned like ****** plagiarist Jerzy Kosiński during his croakin'