To the women who lived in the barrio,
The actor seemed quite the lothario.
   But his novia knew
   ‘Twas a mythical queue,
She had written her lover’s scenario!

He started each day with a joke,
Often simple, but if useful baroque.
     The listeners repeated them,
     The circle completed them
Til a sense of good fellowship woke.

People laughed till their sides started splitting.
And—with their underwear no longer fitting,
     Their punch lines were showing
     With the north winds still blowing
There were strains of the humor transmitting!

The puns that he used were outrageous.
He was forced to reduce them by stages.
     The CDC said
     Epidemics they spread,
The guffaws were extremely contagious!

But the humor was also a cure
For the pains that they'd had to endure.
     No elixirs were shaken,
     Not a bitter pill taken,
And the feelings of wellness were pure.

So he settled for writing refrains,
With a bit of sly humor ingrained.
     If you don’t see the slyness--
     Per Thomas Aquinas--
If you love it no need to explain!

I’m called Madam Budget Cut, hard-edged Ms. Bludgeon ****,
Slashing each piece of the pie.
But still I the budget gut, both guns and butter cut,
Balance the budget or die!

I’ve a tax for tobacco, and (pols think I’m whacko),
I’m slashing their projects with knives.
No ribbons for cutting, no grants for abutting
Old properties owned by their wives.

I’ve cross-the-board fixes, I’ve “no ways” and “nixes”,
I’ve silly assumptions and worse.
I consolidate functions, ignore court injunctions
Protecting the power of the purse.

I’ve early-out options, I propose late adoptions
Of programs designed by the Feds.
I close institutions, slow down restitutions,
And limit the number of beds.

I fire those who sign up
The thousands who line up
For Medicaid, welfare and such.
I’ve April surprises, with merit pay prizes
For staff who don’t argue too much.

So go with my uppercut,
Knock out the sludge, and gut,
Budgets should never be shy.
So we’ll cut, snip and suture,
Then look toward the future,
And pray that the patient won’t die!

As a botanist she had no peer
In cajoling a plant to appear.
   She would talk to them…sing
   About any old thing.
And she’d fertilize often with cheer!

She lived out her life in an attic;
Horticultural chances were static.
   But her care was so giving,
   She earned plants a living
With a glow based on colors chromatic!

She developed a system to graft her
Young shoots twixt a wall and a rafter.
  There was not quite the room
   To make daffodils bloom,
So she sprinkled them often with laughter!

As the plants grew they got a concoction
That would let them move on, as an option.
   And thus one new morn
   Plant Parenthood was born.
They would offer themselves for adoption!

Though ado/apted, they remembered her dearly,
And the reunion they held semi-yearly
   Was named after her
   Though her prodigy were
Often forced into blossoming early

Not a problem.
They were used to miracles!

To dream the possible dream,
To convince the implacable foe,
To serve in the public arena,
To defend every man’s right to know.

To choose, when the choices are tough,
To toil, through the catcalls and jeers,
To proceed, when proceeding is called for,
To succeed through the blood and the tears.

We work to hold trust; we stick to the facts,
Recommendations for spending; recommendations for tax.
To fight when we must; but much better to show
Through analysis based on the facts how decisions might go.

And we know if we only adhere
To objectives of worth,
That reforms, small and large as they come,
Can be nursed to their birth.

And the world will be better for this—
That we strove, both as peons and czars—
And moved with deliberate courage
To reach the reachable stars.

They were born two months apart.
     Their houses shared a common wall.
               Abutting romance.

You might say.

Naked, at age one, they shared a kiddie pool.
     Grandparents still have the picture (giggle).
     Joined at the hip.

So to speak.

Just the houses. Lives moved on, separately.
     Some don’t; she died a teenager.

Lives diverge.
       Lives end
Wish him the best, truly.
        His life should be as beautiful as he is.

May he remember the sum
          Of the good times.
                 Where he has been.
                 And what he has accomplished.

Let him remember that the best is yet to come.
   But let him not forget her.

So I finally ran out of rhymes (sad thought).
When I put this with that there were times
   When I thought rhymes were endless,
   But now sounds are friendless.
My limericks now must be mimes!

So I’m mouthing the words; do you hear ‘em?
Be quick! They’re right now disappearin’!
   Evanescent their tone
   With a volume unknown.
Though they fit me so well I  can wear 'em.

But wait! There are rhymes near the bottom.
I can reach ‘em. I’ll stretch out. Yes! I’ve got em!
  Well,  I’ll use them next time,
   There’s no place here for rhyme.
Still, blessed be he who begot em.