we're on a break,
meaning we catharsis ****,
often in public places,
often with an edge of violence,
much like the session in the
family restroom, here at
Big Daddy's Bar-B-Que (travesty, travesty).

still waiting for Em to to finish "tidying up."
and the brisket is salty.
or it's the leftovers from her forehead.
she should have cut her fingernails.
thinking of a way to hide the blood trails
running wild on the back of my t-shirt.
catharsis, she says. it's healthy, she says.
Elvis croons over the arcane stereo system
and a white-haired woman with gelatinous
arms taps her fingers on the tabletop along
to "Teddy Bear."
the waitress keeps a hawk's eye on my
half-empty/half-full glass of water.
and I'm afraid to take a drink.

here comes Em. she's an athlete. and we're on a break,
meaning we don't see each other's parents.
don't nod and listen.
and don't say things like, "oh yeah, your sister Sarah. how's she?"
hallelujah, hallelujah. Em played point guard in high school.
her last official sporting endeavor. but twenty minutes ago
she told me to look up a complicated position
via iKamastutra on my phone
because she's an athlete, and I'd be "amazed at what
this
machine [her body]
can do."

but I hate when she says **** like that.
catering to an I'm-almost-certain-peg
of my fantasy. harder, harder
and before I finish, she insists on
swallowing
and
it makes me uncomfortable
but
we're on break, and to argue
would be a crucifixion to this "vacation."

I think about Elvis.
and wonder if any
woman is still alive that
swallowed his ***.
and when it's down
to just one, does that mean
anything?

"well that was fun," Em says.
her mascara wasted.
the brisket is salty.
I take a generous drink of water.
I hear the sound of breaking glass.
the waitress has busted
a bottle of ketchup in her
rush to refill my 2/3rds empty cup.

"mazel tov," I say.

This Day, two Biped Ponies each of you ride,
Strolling along the lane Lovers enjoy
To watch this Sweet Scene from way far behind,
A Cheque I'd like to cash-in this Friday
Yes, for Pence-Tales of Romance and Success
Thinking to Follow is easy enough
How many, do those Squirrels squeak at-less
The Time which Currency states on the Rough
I guess Luck's Fair in Friendship does depend
On a Brisket-List sorted in custom
To where each of you in Common does spend,
Well, better than sulk out of sheer boredom.
The Bullseye's paid, admitting my Defeat,
Licking my own Fab's whilst hugging the Street.

Fine living . . . a la carte?
     Come to the Waldorf-Astoria!

     LISTEN HUNGRY ONES!
Look! See what Vanity Fair says about the
     new Waldorf-Astoria:

     "All the luxuries of private home. . . ."
Now, won't that be charming when the last flop-house
     has turned you down this winter?
     Furthermore:
"It is far beyond anything hitherto attempted in the hotel
     world. . . ." It cost twenty-eight million dollars. The fa-
     mous Oscar Tschirky is in charge of banqueting.
     Alexandre Gastaud is chef. It will be a distinguished
     background for society.
So when you've no place else to go, homeless and hungry
     ones, choose the Waldorf as a background for your rags--
(Or do you still consider the subway after midnight good
     enough?)

        ROOMERS
Take a room at the new Waldorf, you down-and-outers--
     sleepers in charity's flop-houses where God pulls a
     long face, and you have to pray to get a bed.
They serve swell board at the Waldorf-Astoria. Look at the menu, will
you:

     GUMBO CREOLE
     CRABMEAT IN CASSOLETTE
     BOILED BRISKET OF BEEF
     SMALL ONIONS IN CREAM
     WATERCRESS SALAD
     PEACH MELBA

Have luncheon there this afternoon, all you jobless.
     Why not?
Dine with some of the men and women who got rich off of
     your labor, who clip coupons with clean white fingers
     because your hands dug coal, drilled stone, sewed gar-
     ments, poured steel to let other people draw dividends
     and live easy.
(Or haven't you had enough yet of the soup-lines and the bit-
     ter bread of charity?)
Walk through Peacock Alley tonight before dinner, and get
     warm, anyway. You've got nothing else to do.

A half-breed is what I am
Its a term that I use loosely
Proud to be described as such
The product of my parents who are
Of opposite backgrounds
I have been exposed to the best,
And worst, of both their worlds
I use this exposure to my advantage
My knowledge allows me to adapt

The Mandells taught me manners
With little white gloves
And a matching hat
Salad fork and dinner fork
Napkin on my lap
Eating shrimp and sipping milk
Baked brisket and baked goods
Spanish Cream and Charlotte Rousse
are variations of the same food

Peanut butter and jelly?
Ill have lamb chops, dad would say
Live-in maid and manicured lawn
Apple trees out back
Playing Cowboy with play guns
Country Club and Boy Scout Camp
Silver service, crystal glasses,
Matching furnishings
Copenhagen figurines
Everythings antique
Draw the drapes in the evening
Mandell & Dreyfus Clothing Store
Located right downtown
He was well fed and well clothed
Under a beautiful roof
Lacking only a sense of real family

The Sisneros taught me family
It was all they could afford
Hillbillies raised in a rural place
Ranching and rodeos and rundown rock houses
Ten of them in a two-room house,
No running water, with dirt floors,
Ceiling plastered with catalog pages with
Flower water used for paste
Playing Sears Catalog paper dolls
Grandma had too many mouths to feed
To worry about how good it tastes
She cooked a mass
She made it fast, a little burnt
Tortillas, Chile, and beans
Typical New Mexican cuisine
Chicken Necks,
Baked small intestine
Wound around left over fat,
Bull Testicles, Blood, Liver,
Dead flies trapped in scrambled eggs
Grandpa stabbing pies
Nothing wasted

Music, singing, and dance
Thats how they passed the time
Spending evenings entertaining
Grandpa singing, guitar playing
Classic Spanish and
Country songs from that time

And these two who spawned me
For I am their offspring
Came together when they were
Not much younger than me
And have been ever since

Their races and classes
Are what set them apart
As opposite as morning and afternoon
When I once thought I should choose
Which ethnicity and which religion
I should be relating to
They allowed me to form my own ideas
My own sense of spirituality
Who I am
Feeling what I feel
Believing what I please
These two people
They just let me be

My dearest Rocky,
You were too old.
Too old to chase after that mischief of mice.
But you were not to be halted.
And in return,
Hind legs destroyed.
Cut up and sewn together
In crisscross fashion.
Once a lazy *******,
Then a lethargic moribund mutt.
(But still a *******)
On your last leg, (or two) in a literal sense.
You dumb dog.
You balding, simple-minded scoundrel.
Christmas came and Christmas went.
A feast of elegance at your disposal.
Any indulgence you desired.
We bequeathed, as a last goodbye.
Brisket, frozen cream, pastries and more.
Up until the day, our eyes became sore.
One last car ride- One last roar.
One last breeze through your jowls.
Your clacking stomps and palsy-walsy howls,
Echo even now when I walk through the door.
Now silent and still, turned to ash and dust
I hope you’re herding that memory of elephants,
And leading that pride of lions,
In your infinite dream.
And remembering those who you brought joy.
But especially,
The one who carried you
Upstairs to bed
Every night.
I love you still, and always will.
Good boy, *******, good boy.

Through her eyes I see her soul,
And the sadness when they roll,
Her nose as black as coal,
Though sweet as a baby foal,

She has teeth like broken china,
And a tongue like a pink recliner,
Her face like a piece of art,
That was crafted from the heart,

She has ears like paper origami,
That could hear a foreign tsunami,
Her neck forms an arch,
Like a piece of twisted larch,

Her brisket is as deep as the sea,
And holds the lock to my key,
Her legs like a vintage chair,
That walks with grace and care,

She has a body built for speed,
When running she takes the lead,
Her heart races like a lambaguini,
Although It might seem quite teeny,

Her muscles tense like a fierce stallion,
Like an athlete ready to win a medallion,
Her body is so aerodynamic,
When she runs she makes the wind panic,

Her tail swooshes from side to side,
As she holds her head in great pride,
Her coat as black as leather,
And as soft as a ducks feather,

It shimmers like a stream,
When the sun makes it gleam,
Her little dashes of white,
Are oh so pure and bright,

Never will I feel of despair,
Cause I know my best friend is there!!!

Turkey, stuffing
Mac and cheese
Ziti, mussels
collard greens
Cran sauce, ham hocks
Candied yams
Brisket, corn bread
Sizzling lamb
Stuffed shells, Sausage
Yellow rice
Chicken, mash potatoes
Pumpkin pies
All the food I had on my plate
Blessed and thankful that I ate
Knowing others don't have the same
But we shared, the needy came
Ate with us as own our kin
There was where new friendships begin
Giving back makes all feel good
Serving to our neighborhood
In our home, you're invited in
We pass the plate with you as kin

Thursday at noon
hit the road
done for the week
lighten my load

Cold beers calling
out my name
party all weekend
call up the gang

BBQ brisket and *******
maybe fishing, or hit the dance hall
country music, turned way up loud
waiting on my woman, I make the call

I'm out till Tuesday
and that's ok
need a break from workdays
settle the mind and the soul
forget work and lets go play

All day Friday at the lake
****** Mary's mixed and ready
drop the boat in
and run it steady

Skiing and laughing
with some friends
watching the sun set
in the end

I'm out till Tuesday
and that's ok
need a break from workdays
settle the mind and the soul
forget work and lets go play

Saturday headed to the mountain
hunt some sheds, do some hiking
the air is clear and its cool
all of this is too my liking

Gather wood, for a fire tonight
to keep us warm as temperatures drop
jack and coke  in my cup
listen to the fire pop

I'm out till Tuesday
and that's ok
need a break from workdays
settle the mind and the soul
forget work and lets go play

Sunday morning, driving home
taking our time, all alone
shady spot, all secluded
for work, time, I'll now atone

Blanket down, made of fleece
in the woods, afternoon delight,
no one sees
though the sun shines bright

I'm out till Tuesday
and that's ok
need a break from workdays
settle the mind and the soul
forget work and lets go play

Monday comes, back home again
mow the grass, take out the trash
fix the sink that, began to leak
this long weekend has been a dash

Monday night, on the couch
football game, as steaks grill
a long deep kiss, from my wife
long weekend ending thrill

I'm out till Tuesday
and that's ok
need a break from workdays
settle the mind and the soul
forget work and we did play

By: Cedric McClester

Welcome to Franklin’s
You know how we do
Get on the line
If you want our barbeque
We open at eleven
And close when we are through
People from all over
Come here just like you

Welcome to Franklin’s
Pull yourself up a  chair
It’s four or five hour wait
Just to get in here

We sell brisket by the pound
So tell us what’s your pleasure
Put your money down
We have a scale to measure
It’s finger licking good
This we guarantee
If you ain’t tried it, you should
Are you listening to me?

Welcome to Franklin’s
Pull yourself up a  chair
It’s four or five hour wait
Just to get in here

A trip to Austin Texas
Ain’t nearly complete
Until you’ve been to Franklin’s
And had a bite to eat
We pride ourselves on barbeque
Unrivaled anywhere
It’s not bragging when it’s true
See we’re the best, I swear

We’ve become world famous
In the shortest amount of time
See we’ve only been open
Since two-thousand and nine
And we’re rated five stars
Number one in the Zagat
People drive miles in their cars
Just to be where we’re at

Welcome to Franklin’s
Pull yourself up a  chair
It’s four or five hour wait
Just to get in here

Welcome to Franklin’s
You know how we do
Get on the line
If you want our barbeque
We open at eleven
And close when we are through
People from all over
Come here just like you






Cedric McClester,  Copyright (c) 2016.  All rights reserved.

I wrote you a folk song, sister.
Think I’ll call it “Caroline,”
after your mama’s mama
and the way she’d
slow smoke a brisket
for fifteen hours,
slapping away at the jaw harp
and kicking chickens.
Man, she had heart.

Nate and I still swing down by Early’s mill
on these summer days away from work,
and hack our way through the rushes
with that Congolese machete
Daddy gave me for my tenth birthday
(the fringes remain intact).
Nate ran into trouble,
and is back in town
for a while.

I’d say it’s about time
we rosin up the horsehair
and saw away at some old gospel staples,
the same way we did
at the fiddle contests
two lifetimes ago,
when the mountain tunes lingered
in the morning mist
far beyond breakfast.

Back when the AT through hikers
crashed at our place and brought stories of the Great Trail.

Back when my daddy wore bellbottomed jeans
and could scale a rock like some sort of deity.

Back when Nate smashed Grammie’s mason jar
of flour all over the road
and got a good whoopin’.

Back when we’d dam up the creek
and dream up images for the trees.

Back when your mama’s mama
prayed to Jesus on our behalf,
and the stars still came out most nights.
Her redwood rosary still dangles
on the mirror by my Hank Williams shrine.

Yes, I wrote you a tune from the heart, sister,
where the memory wells
flow with water from a living rock.

I hope you like it.

‘Twas a sultry night, when you solemnly inquired –
“Would you like to have a piece of meat?”
A conscientious vegan like myself, rarely required
such unwarranted delicacies to eat.

Startled as I was, to myself I reasoned:
” it’s not as if I indulge every day –
and if a prime rib beckons, so perfectly seasoned
then even I’m allowed to go astray ”

you proffered to me, a choicey cut
Yet I waited for the perfect buy-ins;
lean and trim, the steaks were high, but–
the deal was only for the tenderloins.

Alas dear reader, that is where I mistook
my desires for a saucy brisket,
for in truth it was that I fancied the cook
but such emotions to flourish – I couldn’t risk it.

To grill is a skill that must be honed –
To be well-done is indeed so rare!
the merriment came not from being T-*****
though it wasn’t half bad, to be rather fair.

And oh my dear you had me speared
upon your metaphorical spit,
and thus Impaled like kabobs I seared,
upon fires of desires that befit.

One such night, I denied myself a meal
thinking it to be fine and dandy
what did it matter, venison or veal
when in truth, I wasn’t really randy

To my shock, what I had thought was written-
as my appetite for fleshy delights,
was instead that I was undoubtedly smitten,
indulging my fancies in the chef’s invites.

Oh then I realized, I was in a stew
of a situation I never appraised
My untimely declaration sent your spits askew
When I said I want you preserved, not braised.

And of course, as I knew, you shook your head
said kinds words and went on ahead
But dearest, nigh a mo’ had I expected more
than being hastily pushed out of the door.

For cooks cook, but must not be mistook
for another entree to be had, for sure.
The dish is what the cook will cook
but the cook is not the dish d’jour.

Cured I was of such carnal an error
much wiser a decision I’d made I wish
for a recipe for disaster is every chef’s terror
when a patron, as I, butchers a perfect dish.

A lesson I learnt, one you taught so fast
’twas not a lesson in grilling —
but to choose a more delectable repast
one that thought that I was equally thrilling.

But to be fair, I give credit much deserved
to a palatable person as you
for Grade A and gourmet are commonly served
and yet only to you I succumbed without ado.

For as a vegan, I religiously abstain
from undue pleasures of the flesh
yet while the romps of meats were not in vain
I paid my compliments only to the chef…

Give me stars and bars and collard greens,
sweet lemonade and simple things,
Stevie Ray Vaughn and Lynyrd Skynyrd,
Texas brisket and beans for dinner.

Deep fried okra, and cornbread,
Black Diamond melons on a flatbed,
don’t be stupid, but if you start,
we’ll just say, “well bless your heart.”

Always fixin’ to go do something,
usually fishing, or maybe hunting,
running ‘round our stomping grounds,
never know what can be found.

Jack and coke or Coors Light Beer
copper still, dripping out clear,
fried catfish on Saturday,
in the barn for a roll in the hay.

George Strait sings out The Chair,
while we enjoy fresh country air,
sitting on the truck tailgate,
holding her hand and feeling great.

The socialist and the socialite
sat themselves down for supper.
Arthur wore a blood red rose
while Sophie went for feathers.

The socialist and the socialite
had only a little in common
and neither said much at all
about the paths they'd trodden.

The socialist and the socialite
ate with polite conversation.
He had the slow cooked brisket,
while she had the salad with chicken.

The socialist and the socialite
left quietly with an old studied calm,
but once their door was firmly closed
fast fell into each other's arms.

I'll be threading my curvy needle & stringing my veined lizard cord
with living broads more handsome than the crapped-out Betty Ford

Because By: Cedric McClester

Like stink on ****
Or a baby on a ***
What I also get
Is he refuses to quit
Because he won’t admit
That he’s not fit
Not one bit
Until his *** gets lit

Like stink on ****
Or a baby on a ***
Butter on a biscuit
A cut of beef as in brisket  
We know that he’ll risk it
By relying on his wit
But that will not acquit
Him from the time he’s  gonna get

Like stink on ****
Or a baby on a ***
The accent on a Brit
What you see is what you get
It’s a comedy skit
The swamp and the pit
Unfortunately both fit
See he ain’t worth spit

Like stink on ****
Or a baby on a ***
A joint that’s lit
He’s as high as it gets
But he has tweet fits
And a thing for glitz
See he’s gonna get blitzed
Because of his trysts





          
            Cedric McCletef, copyright © 2019.  All rights reserved.

The sun is burning down on my SFA cap,
my love sits beside me, her leg up on my lap,
we are on the shores of Cedar Creek Lake,
watching boats and skiers cut a foamy wake.

Her golden skin that shows, has a **** glow,
a tan she got started in New Mexico,
the bikini she's wearing is a Texas flag,
makes it look so good, I really have to brag.

We're just doin' nothin', want to come along?
the radio is playing, come on and sing a song.
The cooler is filled with blue mountain beer,
what are you waiting for, just get on over here?

The breeze is steady and its blowing brisket smoke,
my red solo cup is full of Beam and coke,
the table is filled, with snacks and chips,
some hot and spicy queso, I can't wait to dip.

The day is waning, the moon starts to climb,
cool water and sun made the day sublime,
golden stars now fill, the heart of Texas sky,
laying on the dock, in the middle of July.

We are really good at this,
it's our favorite pastime,
relaxing doin' nothin',
really is no crime.

We're just doin' nothin', want to come along?
the radio is playing, come on and sing a song.
The cooler is filled with blue mountain beer,
what are you waiting for, just get on over here?

We're just doin' nothin', want to come along?
the radio is playing, come on and sing a song.
The cooler is filled with blue mountain beer,
what are you waiting for, just get on over here?

Brisket-deep wade oxen through crop 3 of Cochin China grass rice,
that like Brazilian corn can not drive down 9 cents today's gas price
or **** gophers, lower recidivism or jail-break ****** who pass lice
or rip from lardy Liz Taylor's dead neck her cubic zirconia glass ice
Keen intellects & homosexuality marry like diesel in a wheat tower
as carnivorous corn dogs mustn't **** away their fleshy-meat power
in alleys whereat trolls a ***** whose girl is a brandy-sweet flower
damp but not soaked by the greasy drizzle of a Bronx street shower
that melted by caustic soda Gettysburg's ferro-concrete Eisenhower
Stay back Missy as I ain't anxious to contract your parasitic Q fever
despite the tales in crack town of your exquisitely-luxurious ******
I say: Wiggle over Prissy! I cannot party down with diarrheal fever!
Despite many crack-town tales of your luxuriously-exquisite ******
I order you to: Get back Missy! I don't want your parasitic Q fever!
I command you: Back Nancy! I've no love for Dutch's Mike Dever!
Our hag queen lives in the tire-black shadow of Dennis Weaver, yet
Liz's been saved by the Grace of the Prophet who'll never leave her
just like the fans who cheered the girly pitches of Tom ***** Seaver
who enjoyed the gift that keeps on giving as a giver & as a receiver
minus the knowledge of a cerebrally-dull trophy wife true-believer
and the precise dog-tracking of a duck-retrieving Labrador retriever
akin to a Nordic-berating/race-pimpling Jesse Jackson-era deceiver
who's taken the il Duce-stance to be an F.D.R. New Deal conceiver
A Cebu Island honey in ****** is beautiful even from underneath &
'cause Kentuckians get the most fluoride they have the fewest teeth
from gumming on T.V. dinners like Family Affair with Brian Keith,
or The Big Valley with The Six Million Dollar Man known as Heath
who lived to desecrate Barbara Stanwyck's stone & funereal wreath
to nearly wreck the incorruptible beauty of the heady Virginia Leith
in the dawning twilight of a Republic sacrificing freedom for peace
& metal for paper till tangible property ownership goes up for lease
as a need for mid-gut-binding whale-bone corsets is on the increase
fragrant domestical mice outrank Edwin goose geese mouse Meese
in that tall mysteries are unsolvable while wonders will never cease
Grizzly attacks do much to ingest barren broads bearing our cancer
while the pink feet broken at joints are placed where now hands are
to confuse Komen's breastless feminazis with a bra-padding answer
as a Vaudeville hoofer could to trip up a Cuban cha-cha ***** dancer
better than a tired-of-waiting, endlessly-prating La Habana prancer
who obeys U.N.-garbage-man etiquette and calls a garbage man: sir
An Olympic runner's Vaseline was swiped, so in 3 races he ran sore
Cue-ball “actor” Burton Reynolds called Dinah Shore: Diane Shore
Pigs shooting folks from the ceiling will create a ******, dyin' floor
that is slippery to vinyl-siding shippers and punishing to litter bugs
who have been sucker-punched into pugnaciously-rabid, bitter lugs

Cancer modalities: hack, hypothermia, x-rays & toxin can't crack it
for a lot lizard whose station is an unstructured, tax-starved bracket
while tennis games die grimly set with a barbed-wire-hanger racket
that ruined ******* for big-rig trucking's good buddy Joan Hackett
Hades & rental men: it's the stalling groans with ****-death packet!
Congress shan't by judicial means & measure legislatively abrogate
divinely-sacred powers claimed by Liz regina's counselled castrate
as Catholic America answers the hooligan question with nun patrol
to assassinate Teddy maggot-dinner Kennedy's fraternal gun control
while folding, into State eugenism, the animalic urges of primitives
to obliterate and to placate the devilishly-primitive urges of animals
The water authority's concern for babies compels them to fluoridate
so that the gooey-green tooth enamel of kiddies will not deteriorate
& to keep a rat's mouth of aligned teeth from becoming incomplete
while not degrading his scrumptious U.S.D.A. grade-A rodent meat
nor his anatomical delicacies: arterioles, splenic capsules and 4 feet
of intestines, a pancreas, thoracic arteries & superfluously-ratty ****
that produces the same amount of milk as an owl struck in concrete
or a popery-loving Sinn Féin milker sunk in an A.S.S.I. bog of peat
equalin' no mas eugenical Frenching for U.N.I.C.E.F.'s trick-or-treat
or stun-gunning razor-backs for a Codex Alimentarius-******* pleat
that is more bordel-exquisite than Haitian tea served on Easy Street
If randomized ****** is the homicide you like, it was reported that
on 5 April '69 Stepin Fetchit's son Donald shot 20 on Pa.'s turnpike
& 3 months later Teddy drove Bobby's girl off a bridge named ****
Christmas at the Hollywood Palace, 1969 featured old Perry Como
whom *******-rag Time described in 1970 as being: no merry ****
Any conspiracy is a cons' piracy when two or more are in collusion,
while folks mesmerized by teleprompter-readers are under delusion
of a cerebral/cortex laceration, extirpation, concussion or contusion
to relate a surrealistic/pseudo-reality that will propagate the illusion
that vampire-bus phlebotomists obey strictures of blood transfusion
& that gregarious hermits must forever renounce absolute seclusion
from search-warrant-affidavit-lacking pigs making illegal intrusion
in violation of our state castle law enacted by legislative institution
& adjudged by courts that, though investiture, wrote the conclusion
that is steering toward a rag-stuffin'-ape-lovin'-eugenical revolution
with a homophiliac tutelage as Christendom's Darwinian resolution
says mutational anomalies do not equate to genetical-drift pollution
nor bio-spherical deviances that breed X/Y chromosomal confusion
within the scope of a die-off rate inflating xenogeneic-pool infusion
to counter-balance vales in retardative factors apt to aerial diffusion
Prisoners do not get Lash LaRue whips to whop a cell-******'s sass
nor heaters for Harlem nights colder than an Adak well-digger's ***
To save Earth we must, like raccoons, root through garbage & trash
to obey tree-hugging Mike Farrell: the ***-wiper actor on MASH
to obey fur-hating Mike Farrell: the ***-wiping ***** on MASH
to obey ******* Mike Farrell: the ***-kissing ***-wipe on MAS*H
.The Waltons who wasted J.F.K.were sibs Jim Bob & Mary Ellen in
a bed with John Boy, Uncle Corn Pone & Scaifes' Dickie Mellon in
a conspiracy with Rockefellers' Mossad, Bush & Hunt in sixty-two
to supplant & cultivate corporatization of the U.S.A. for me & you;
to propagate a global-credit system beginning with this Dallas coup
Big-time movie dude Burt Lancaster was never known to have lied
about his 4 marriages dying with judgments of justifiable homicide
No Christian shall deny an unborn baby's supreme court right to die
'cause the German zeppelin LZ 129 Hindenburg was too light to fly

Sore are wintry Hawaiian gals struck by pink papier-mâchéd maids
whilst tyre tread types are trundled backways from wheelied tirades
Pink are spring Honolulu broads tinted by red papier-mâché shades
Do not nag me till I **** you dead ole crapped-out Larry F. Hagman,
as I am in no humor to wring the necks of persecuted hairy rag men
Gynecology might ***** you in solid with Camorra's Casalesi clan,
as their bearded women are tripping circuits of a master messy plan
while my *****-stamped Taylor Texicana trans-**** as a lezzy tran
On roads of electrical eye sores penicillin backs homosexualization
among a purgatory of jack ***** dealing promo Mex mule salvation
Pad my bra *****: I'm tar paper & my angry ******* ******* will bite
'cause unarmed Haitians will be shot on Hispaniola's border tonight
by Dominican Republic guards who cleanse the island in gun fight
Who better to welcome tea drinkers to Cup Land than Saucer Boy?
Who better to play Shatner's number 1 than Leonard ****** Nimoy?
Joe Green's mean because pea-green Coca-Cola made his *** green
as Coke's pond water is the greenest water Lord Jesus has ever seen
that, as an emetic, will keep you bruised, confused, infected & lean
Trifling things shall not diminish my reverence for Miss Kitty Ting
despite the fact that her '67 suicide made moot mere mortal atoning
from Diana's birthing moon where Earthen-Human souls are placed
in 0-72-hour newborns after old-corpse memories have been erased
concurrent with funereal brutality for cadavers to be casket-encased
There was a porker known in Las Vegas by the handle Elvis Presley
who forked Satan's deadly Negresses saying: “Hell shall bless me!”
U.S. civil rights entail the timely return of my fresh bag of cabbage
putrefyin' in a City of New York medallion-licensed cab of baggage

Smoothing Jagger's ***-face wrinkles like a *** must to ream 'cause
after 35 years Beatle John Lennon is lost like some forgotten dream
Because Mac went queer-bait kissin' sock-cuckin' Elton John's lips,
Yoko wants dwarf Ringo to wing him with tone-deaf Linda's whips
until Paul condemns homosexuality by canceling his Bangkok trips
to prove that Gladys Knight is a 2-buck *** ***** minus Jim's Pips
Krung Thep, D.C.'s '62 sister, is a ****** haven of white-lovin' nips
that offed Đặng Lệ Quân while Thai ****** bled like filleted strips
that snuffed Deng Lijun as Mongol tramps burned like scurvy ships
in seas far removed from sassy Oakland: turf of the Bloods & Crips
who know more urologically than urologists about vasectomy snips
A global ice age is imminent and we must impregnate young nurses
before eating their delicious groceries & stealing their Gucci purses
on Friday when nurse-impregnators aren't reciting Psalms & verses
My gray ****** are pressed & folded despite imprecations & curses

There's a secret videotape of C.F.R.'s monkey Tom Clancy beggin'
in vain to the Control Group that vaccinates a senile Nancy Reagan
for his life to be spared as before God would whine an antsy pagan
Scrawny **** use calf prosthetics to mill a Mexican mission 'cause
bad plastic surgery is sewing your ****** to shin to form a **** shin
that'll ruin the brainiest ***-brainiac's Nigerian brain-*** syndrome
via español audio-libro of a John Viet Cong McCain braggin' tome,
beloved by Mexi-greasers whose favorite wheel is a mag in chrome

Hey *******! Can't I celebrate Rage Against Anger Month in peace?
Jesus! and Take not the Lord's Name in Vain Month with my niece?
Is there no stopping the moronic maxim Will wonders never cease?
Holly rat milk Brett Ratner! Whatever Happened to Mason Reese?
Holy hit & run Rebecca Gayheart! Which is the fastest car to lease?
To queerly wed mustn't a *** breach the equity-in-marriage crease?
When will ewe-loving sheepmen give their shepherd love to geese?
When séance-hosting Nancy Reagan gets knocked up by Ed Meese

The fog rolls in,
as mallards swim,
drip, drip drip,
condensing fog off the house.

Quack, quack, quack,
in the distance,
echoing again,
across the lake.

Jet skis and boats,
hang lifeless,
in the winter,
December 23rd.

American flag,
sag limp and lifeless,
on the boat house,
as the squirrel climbs the oak.

An occasional leaf,
pirouettes from on high,
spinning and spinning,
to the brown grass below.

The taste of forty creek,
and seven up
on ice, with lime
in my yellow plastic cup.

Bbq smoke smell,
as brisket cooks,
waiting for family
to arrive.