Yucky Chucky Tucker

Yucky Chucky Tucker was smelly as can be,
he never took a bath and hardly ever brushed his teeth.
Everywhere he went he left an odor in the air,
and Yucky Chucky Tucker never combed his hair.
His hands were always ***** cause he played with stinky worms,
he never cared if he got sick, he wasn't afraid of germs.
He didn't have a lot of friends except for one or two,
till Yucky Chucky Tucker met little Linda Sue.
Linda was quite pretty, an awesome sight to admire
and Yucky Chucky Tucker would give anything to sit by her.
But he'd have to make some changes and what I mean by that,
Yucky Chucky Tucker would have to take a bath.
He'd have to wash his hands and scrub his ***** face,
and to clean his stained up yellow teeth would take a tube of paste.
He'd have to wash his hair at least a dozen times,
to remove the terrible build up of sticky greasy grime.
Then Yucky Chucky Tucker would have to change his clothes,
sprinkle on cologne and find a bright red rose.
And maybe if he's lucky little Linda Sue,
might take another look at him and think he's really cute.
Funny how a pretty girl can change the way you think,
cause even Yucky Chucky Tucker washed away his stink,
All to catch the eye of little Linda Sue,
besides, her daddy owned a toy store, now what's a boy to do?

Written By  Kathy J Parenteau
Copyright © All Rights Reserved

(This poem can be sung to the tune of the 1922 song "Toot…Toot…Tootsie, Good-bye.")

Good-bye, Tucker,° good-bye!
How did things go awry?
I CAN'T say we will miss you.
For years we hoped that your producers would dismiss you.
How so could you not know
How low you tried to go?
Did you not see
How it would be
If you kept on lying through your teeth on TV?
And so, Tucker, nice try!
Good-bye, Tucker, good-bye!

Good-bye, Tucker, good-bye!
No, we're NOT going to cry.
We are glad that you're going away,
And we won't say to come again some other day.
Tell us, Tucker, why you
Did what you tried to do.
When they all rant,
Hypocrites can't
Care about the ones out there whom they disenchant.
I'll say with a dry eye,
"Good-bye, Tucker, good-bye!"

-by Bob B (4-25-23)

°Tucker Carlson: political talk show host fired from Fox News

There once was an interstate trucker
Who went by the name of Tucker
He transported illegal goods
To all sectors of the woods
Cops did a raid to shut down Tucker's trade

Who thumps against me in the dark
And rings the jingles by the door
To let me know he has to *** a little after four,
Then barks at neighbors passing by
To let them know a guard is nigh?

Who chews my phone and my remote
And tears the pillow stuffings out,
Then wags his tail with sheepish smiles
And makes me laugh when I should pout?

Whose breath defeats my appetite
And slobber covers everything in sight
And pounces on our comfy bed at night
When I have snuggled in just right?

Tucker Freitas is his human name,
A wooly Labradoodle with no shame,
(We call the "grand-dog" to his face
But other things when in disgrace).

So would I have him any other way,
Say in a kennel or a fricassee,
Or stuffed and lying on a frame?
No, I will love him in his puppied self
Content to know he loves me as myself.

The company he gives is pure as gold,
His eager joy at seeing me is never old;
He's healthy and excited each time he hits my door,
Tongue hanging out and slobber flying,
Four feet sliding on the polished floor,
Remembering treats and wanting more.

Oh there once was a swagman camped in the  billabong,
  Under the shade of a Coolabah tree;
And he sang as he looked at his old billy boiling
  "Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me."

  Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
  Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag —
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

Down came a jumbuck to drink at the waterhole,
  Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him in glee;
And he sang as he stowed him away in his tucker-bag,
  "You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me."

  Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
  Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag —
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

Down came the squatter a-riding his thoroughbred;
  Down came policemen — one, two, and three.
"Whose is the jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag?
  You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with we."

  Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
  Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag —
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

But the swagman, he up and he jumped in the waterhole,
  Drowning himself by the Coolabah tree;
And his ghost may be heard as it sings in the billabong
  "Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?"

  Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
  Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag.
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me

I WAS born on the prairie and the milk of its wheat, the red of its clover, the eyes of its women, gave me a song and a slogan.

Here the water went down, the icebergs slid with gravel, the gaps and the valleys hissed, and the black loam came, and the yellow sandy loam.
Here between the sheds of the Rocky Mountains and the Appalachians, here now a morning star fixes a fire sign over the timber claims and cow pastures, the corn belt, the cotton belt, the cattle ranches.
Here the gray geese go five hundred miles and back with a wind under their wings honking the cry for a new home.
Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water.

The prairie sings to me in the forenoon and I know in the night I rest easy in the prairie arms, on the prairie heart..    .    .
        After the sunburn of the day
        handling a pitchfork at a hayrack,
        after the eggs and biscuit and coffee,
        the pearl-gray haystacks
        in the gloaming
        are cool prayers
        to the harvest hands.

In the city among the walls the overland passenger train is choked and the pistons hiss and the wheels curse.
On the prairie the overland flits on phantom wheels and the sky and the soil between them muffle the pistons and cheer the wheels..    .    .
I am here when the cities are gone.
I am here before the cities come.
I nourished the lonely men on horses.
I will keep the laughing men who ride iron.
I am dust of men.

The running water babbled to the deer, the cottontail, the gopher.
You came in wagons, making streets and schools,
Kin of the ax and rifle, kin of the plow and horse,
Singing Yankee Doodle, Old Dan Tucker, Turkey in the Straw,
You in the coonskin cap at a log house door hearing a lone wolf howl,
You at a sod house door reading the blizzards and chinooks let loose from Medicine Hat,
I am dust of your dust, as I am brother and mother
To the copper faces, the worker in flint and clay,
The singing women and their sons a thousand years ago
Marching single file the timber and the plain.

I hold the dust of these amid changing stars.
I last while old wars are fought, while peace broods mother-like,
While new wars arise and the fresh killings of young men.
I fed the boys who went to France in great dark days.
Appomattox is a beautiful word to me and so is Valley Forge and the Marne and Verdun,
I who have seen the red births and the red deaths
Of sons and daughters, I take peace or war, I say nothing and wait.

Have you seen a red sunset drip over one of my cornfields, the shore of night stars, the wave lines of dawn up a wheat valley?
Have you heard my threshing crews yelling in the chaff of a strawpile and the running wheat of the wagonboards, my cornhuskers, my harvest hands hauling crops, singing dreams of women, worlds, horizons?.    .    .
        Rivers cut a path on flat lands.
        The mountains stand up.
        The salt oceans press in
        And push on the coast lines.
        The sun, the wind, bring rain
        And I know what the rainbow writes across the east or west in a half-circle:
        A love-letter pledge to come again..    .    .
      Towns on the Soo Line,
      Towns on the Big Muddy,
      Laugh at each other for cubs
      And tease as children.

Omaha and Kansas City, Minneapolis and St. Paul, sisters in a house together, throwing slang, growing up.
Towns in the Ozarks, Dakota wheat towns, Wichita, Peoria, Buffalo, sisters throwing slang, growing up..    .    .
Out of prairie-brown grass crossed with a streamer of wigwam smoke-out of a smoke pillar, a blue promise-out of wild ducks woven in greens and purples-
Here I saw a city rise and say to the peoples round world: Listen, I am strong, I know what I want.
Out of log houses and stumps-canoes stripped from tree-sides-flatboats coaxed with an ax from the timber claims-in the years when the red and the white men met-the houses and streets rose.

A thousand red men cried and went away to new places for corn and women: a million white men came and put up skyscrapers, threw out rails and wires, feelers to the salt sea: now the smokestacks bite the skyline with stub teeth.

In an early year the call of a wild duck woven in greens and purples: now the riveter's chatter, the police patrol, the song-whistle of the steamboat.

To a man across a thousand years I offer a handshake.
I say to him: Brother, make the story short, for the stretch of a thousand years is short..    .    .
What brothers these in the dark?
What eaves of skyscrapers against a smoke moon?
These chimneys shaking on the lumber shanties
When the coal boats plow by on the river-
The hunched shoulders of the grain elevators-
The flame sprockets of the sheet steel mills
And the men in the rolling mills with their shirts off
Playing their flesh arms against the twisting wrists of steel:
        what brothers these
        in the dark
        of a thousand years?.    .    .
A headlight searches a snowstorm.
A funnel of white light shoots from over the pilot of the Pioneer Limited crossing Wisconsin.

In the morning hours, in the dawn,
The sun puts out the stars of the sky
And the headlight of the Limited train.

The fireman waves his hand to a country school teacher on a bobsled.
A boy, yellow hair, red scarf and mittens, on the bobsled, in his lunch box a pork chop sandwich and a V of gooseberry pie.

The horses fathom a snow to their knees.
Snow hats are on the rolling prairie hills.
The Mississippi bluffs wear snow hats..    .    .
Keep your hogs on changing corn and mashes of grain,
    O farmerman.
    Cram their insides till they waddle on short legs
    Under the drums of bellies, hams of fat.
    **** your hogs with a knife slit under the ear.
    Hack them with cleavers.
    Hang them with hooks in the hind legs..    .    .
A wagonload of radishes on a summer morning.
Sprinkles of dew on the crimson-purple *****.
The farmer on the seat dangles the reins on the rumps of dapple-gray horses.
The farmer's daughter with a basket of eggs dreams of a new hat to wear to the county fair..    .    .
On the left-and right-hand side of the road,
        Marching corn-
I saw it knee high weeks ago-now it is head high-tassels of red silk creep at the ends of the ears..    .    .
I am the prairie, mother of men, waiting.
They are mine, the threshing crews eating beefsteak, the farmboys driving steers to the railroad cattle pens.
They are mine, the crowds of people at a Fourth of July basket picnic, listening to a lawyer read the Declaration of Independence, watching the pinwheels and Roman candles at night, the young men and women two by two hunting the bypaths and kissing bridges.
They are mine, the horses looking over a fence in the frost of late October saying good-morning to the horses hauling wagons of rutabaga to market.
They are mine, the old zigzag rail fences, the new barb wire..    .    .
The cornhuskers wear leather on their hands.
There is no let-up to the wind.
Blue bandannas are knotted at the ruddy chins.

Falltime and winter apples take on the smolder of the five-o'clock November sunset: falltime, leaves, bonfires, stubble, the old things go, and the earth is grizzled.
The land and the people hold memories, even among the anthills and the angleworms, among the toads and woodroaches-among gravestone writings rubbed out by the rain-they keep old things that never grow old.

The frost loosens corn husks.
The Sun, the rain, the wind
        loosen corn husks.
The men and women are helpers.
They are all cornhuskers together.
I see them late in the western evening
        in a smoke-red dust..    .    .
The phantom of a yellow rooster flaunting a scarlet comb, on top of a dung pile crying hallelujah to the streaks of daylight,
The phantom of an old hunting dog nosing in the underbrush for muskrats, barking at a **** in a treetop at midnight, chewing a bone, chasing his tail round a corncrib,
The phantom of an old workhorse taking the steel point of a plow across a forty-acre field in spring, hitched to a harrow in summer, hitched to a wagon among cornshocks in fall,
These phantoms come into the talk and wonder of people on the front porch of a farmhouse late summer nights.
"The shapes that are gone are here," said an old man with a cob pipe in his teeth one night in Kansas with a hot wind on the alfalfa..    .    .
Look at six eggs
In a mockingbird's nest.

Listen to six mockingbirds
Flinging follies of O-be-joyful
Over the marshes and uplands.

Look at songs
Hidden in eggs..    .    .
When the morning sun is on the trumpet-vine blossoms, sing at the kitchen pans: Shout All Over God's Heaven.
When the rain slants on the potato hills and the sun plays a silver shaft on the last shower, sing to the bush at the backyard fence: Mighty Lak a Rose.
When the icy sleet pounds on the storm windows and the house lifts to a great breath, sing for the outside hills: The Ole Sheep Done Know the Road, the Young Lambs Must Find the Way..    .    .
Spring slips back with a girl face calling always: "Any new songs for me? Any new songs?"

O prairie girl, be lonely, singing, dreaming, waiting-your lover comes-your child comes-the years creep with toes of April rain on new-turned sod.
O prairie girl, whoever leaves you only crimson poppies to talk with, whoever puts a good-by kiss on your lips and never comes back-
There is a song deep as the falltime redhaws, long as the layer of black loam we go to, the shine of the morning star over the corn belt, the wave line of dawn up a wheat valley..    .    .
O prairie mother, I am one of your boys.
I have loved the prairie as a man with a heart shot full of pain over love.
Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water..    .    .
I speak of new cities and new people.
I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.
I tell you yesterday is a wind gone down,
  a sun dropped in the west.
I tell you there is nothing in the world
  only an ocean of to-morrows,
  a sky of to-morrows.

I am a brother of the cornhuskers who say
  at sundown:
        To-morrow is a day.

(This poem can be sung to the tune of the 1922 song "Toot…Toot…Tootsie, Good-bye.")

Tucker,° can't you say when?
You have done it again.
What IS your fascination
With someone who's a real threat to our free nation?
Giving Putin free rein
Is nothing short of insane!
How could you not
Be overwrought
When you let the Russian tyrant bolster his plot?
Therefore, fingers are crossed
That you'll somehow get lost!

Letting Putin spread lies,
Tucker, isn't so wise.
You, of course, are guilty of that,
And when you do you cater to the autocrat.
You think Moscow's so nice.
So, I won't tell you twice.
Surely you could
Do what you should:
Pack your bags, get on a plane, and move there for good.
When your jet's in the sky,
Tucker, we’ll wave good-bye!

-by Bob B (2-14-24)

°Tucker Carlson: political talk show host fired from Fox News in 2023

When I first met you, I cried.
Looking upon your silhouette, I wondered.

Reading your articles, I wanted to know you.
Searching for hours, I would find you.

A traveling boxer, just breaking into fame.
A husband, a father.

She moved from Pennsylvania to Oregon, and was your demise in 1902.
I moved from Pennsylvania to Oregon, and I will remember you.

A decade younger than her, but I feel the responsibility heavy on my shoulders. The resemblance to me, uncanny

She took you to your grave and I will celebrate your life.

Why did it have to take this long?

The cacophony of voices pushing and shoving, everyone seemed
to be taller than I was and they all seemed to know what to do.
The teacher showed impatience with my tiny body. It was clear
that she liked the kids whose last names were Johnson and whose
parents owned farms on Highway 15.  They all went to the
Methodist Church in town.

I wished I was blonde with a raspy voice like Doreen.

I showed my plaid cotton tennis shoes and sang “Old **** Tucker”
while dancing my best country jig for show-and-tell. This was when
I learned that it was “Dan Tucker” and that “****” was a bad word.

My daddy said ****, and he wore work boots with stiff golden laces
that crisscrossed onto metal fasteners half way up his calves.
The boots kept time when he played guitar; eyes and mouth smiling
and laughing over some absurd thought he had the temerity to speak
out loud. Daddy was the most interesting person I knew. He quit
school after 8th grade, but understood humanity more than most.

I felt good about singing my song and proud of myself for having
mustered up the courage. I did not have fancy toys or artifacts from
family vacations like the other kids.

I had never heard kids call each other names until I made the
acquaintance of the school playground. It was strange how they
ganged up on the boy they said was hyper and had ***** eyes.
I did not know what either of those things meant, but I knew it
made him sad and made me afraid to talk to him. They said I
looked like a ghost, I did not know if that was good or bad.

Doreen was not afraid of the ball, and that made her okay. My Mom
decided to pick a friend for me, but I did not like Linda. She did
not know how to play with dolls; she just looked at them.
Linda was tedious.

The boy with ***** eyes made more sense to me.

He lived in the yellow house that had a dog that would bite and
scare the nice people away. I finally talked to him in 6th grade
on the hour long bus rides home. Once, an older boy named
John snapped a rubber band on his eye over and over until it
swelled completely shut, my friend just took it, crying, until the
bus driver intervened. John’s older brother played with guns,
and John was scared of him, and older brother was scared of father.

We hated when the brothers rode the bus.

I decided that most boys were mean and that to be a boy must be
terrifying. One year, ***** eyes almost drowned during gym class
the other kids said he tried to **** himself. They thought it was funny.
Girls will never know the horrors of the 8th grade boy’s locker room.
When he was 15 he crossed in front of a semi on his moped, they
found his foot half a mile away from his body.  I wonder if the kids
thought that was funny too.

I was too afraid of my emotions to go to the funeral.

Ghost to ***** Eyes: I am sorry that they hurt you Vincent,
and sorry that I am scared to see your innocence reduced
to road **** in a coffin.

The cacophony of voices pushing and
shoving, everyone seemed to be taller

than I was and they all seemed to know
what to do. The teacher showed impatience

with my tiny body, frozen in fear by the
giant circular stone apparatus where

twenty children washed their hands. It was
clear that she liked the kids whose last

names were Johnson and whose parents
owned farms on Highway 15. They all went

to the Methodist Church in Town. I wished
I was blonde with a raspy voice like Doreen.

I showed my plaid cotton tennis shoes and
sang “Old **** Tucker” while dancing my

best country jig for show-and-tell. This was
when I learned that it was “Dan Tucker”

and that “****” was a bad word. My daddy
said ****, and he wore work boots with

stiff golden laces that crisscrossed onto
metal fasteners twelve inches up his calves.

The boots kept time when he played guitar;
his eyes and lips smiling and laughing over

some absurd thought he had the temerity
to speak out loud. Daddy was the most

interesting person I knew. He quit school
after 8th grade, but understood humanity

more than most. He wore cowboy boots
when he played the fiddle, and if he said

****, then it must be okay. I still felt good
about singing my song and proud of myself

for having mustered up the courage. I did
not have fancy toys or artifacts from family

vacations like the other kids. I had never
heard kids call each other names before

I made the acquaintance of the school
playground. It was strange how they

ganged up on the boy they said was hyper
and had ***** eyes. I did not know what

either of those things meant, but I knew it
made him sad and made me afraid to talk

to him. They said I looked like a ghost, I
did not know if that was good or bad.

Doreen was not afraid of the ball, and that
made her okay. My Mom decided to pick a

friend for me, but I did not like Linda. She
did not know how to play with dolls; she

did not make up stories about their lives
or pretend to be their mommy, she just

looked at them. Linda was tedious. The
boy with ***** eyes made more sense

to me. He lived in the yellow house that
had a dog who would bite and scare

the nice people away. I finally talked to
him in 6th grade on the hour long bus rides

home. Once, an older boy named John
snapped a rubber band on his eye over

and over until it swelled completely shut,
my friend just sat and took it until the

bus driver intervened. John’s older brother
played with guns, and John was scared of

him, and older brother was scared of father.
We hated when the brothers rode the bus.

I decided that most boys were mean and
that to be a boy must be terrifying. One

year, ***** eyes almost drowned during
gym class, the other kids said he tried to

**** himself. They thought it was funny.
Girls will never know the horrors of the

8th grade boy’s locker room. When he
was 15 he crossed in front of a semi on

his moped, they found his foot half a mile
away from his body.  I wonder if the kids

thought that was funny too. I was too
afraid of my emotions to go to the funeral.

Ghost to ***** Eyes: I am sorry that they
hurt you Vincent, and sorry that I am

scared to see your innocence reduced
to road **** in a coffin.

This is a beautiful "Barry Hodges" poem.*

Ah, sweet memories of that night in Blarney
In the stout-soaked suburbs of ould Cork City.
How clearly through the mist of alcoholic memory
I recall how we all piled out of Johnny's bar at closing time
****** as a load of proverbial ******* newts;
'Where to now me boys, which bar's still open?'
Shrieked spiflicated Sean O'Shannon
(that's notorious sixteen pints an hour Sean,
the man who won Strictly Come Boozing twice)
As he tottered over to his Pa's new BMW convertible,
Lucky ****** that he is to be son to a Fianna Fáil MEP,
And one not adverse to trousering a Euro or two.

'Sean, me oul' potato, de ye think ye should be driving
With that record-breakin' skinful o' stout
I just seen you put away down your greasy gullet,
Not to mention the quadruple whiskey chaser?'
Enquired loopy Liam O'Lephrechaun as he leaned over
And puked up another gallon of warmish Guinness
Over yours truly as I rolled helplessly in the Ballygrohan road
To the amusement of the gawping bystanders,
Bearing in mind there were a good dozen gobbets
Of half-digested pork scratchings in the froth
Which was causing havoc with my apparel.

So without another feckin' word being spoken
My dear drinking companions and ***** buddies
Left me prostrate and clambered gaily into the waiting car
And roared off into the enchanted Gaelic night;
Singing and smoking themselves silly simultaneously,
So full of the joys of life and the blessed bottle.
And then some ****** stupid American tourist
(doubtless dressed in hideous checked golfing trousers
with a backwards-facing baseball cap on his ugly head,
not to forget his overweight wifey crammed into the front seat
just like a huge white bloated fat-faced hippo),
Came round the next corner in a clapped out rental car
And the two of them got sent to Kingdom-sodding-Come
With a terrible metallic crash which destroyed them completely.

'Oh begorrah and *******, would ye just look at the mess
The feckin eejit's made of me Daddy's Beemer,
And it's his pride and joy so it is to be sure!'
Cried Sean O'Shannon in an alcoholic rage,
As he contemplated the largest insurance claim
In the County Cork for the past six decades,
(at least the largest legitimate one anyway).
Whilst I was trying to get my hipster pants down
To avoid filling them up with beery diarrhoea
Brought on by my involuntary bursts of joyous mirth,
(bejasus, 'twas the second time in the space of a single week
and my new girlfriend was getting a bit fussy about hygiene
bearing in mind she was thinking of taking the veil).

How fortunate old Father Tucker and Garda Sergeant O'Toole
Could both (when they'd sobered up sufficiently)
Testify later from their secure vantage point
In the rear compartment of a nearby parked hearse,
(where they were having a ******* with Deidre,
the filthiest wee **** in the whole South-Western counties)
That the accident was not dear Sean's fault at all, to be sure,
As the other stupid sober yankee ****** was driving at 75
On the wrong friggin' side of the ******' street
Or probably in the middle, come to think of it.
'Sure but Sean's the best driver this side of the Blarney Stone,
And there's no way himself would ever drive under the influence'*
They agreed sagely before going off for another jar or two
And maybe a double knee-trembler with Deidre's fat sister,
One up each of her gaping hair-rimmed orifices.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Logosophiamag.c­om
Hellopoetry.com
Fellowshipandfairydust.com

         The Honorable Kevin McCarthy Recognizes Tucker Carlson

                                      And only Tucker Carlson

The First Amendment defends everyone’s views
And does not surrender the nation to Fox News

A story of Australian terms plants and wildlife. Ref 022
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
An “Acrostic “poetic tribute to my darling girl
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip 4th October 2018.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A story of Australian terms plants and wildlife.

Six years in the making , it ended all too soon
Two oldies ,lost your husband I lost my wife
Oh you were so Australian n I a winging Pom
Reaching three score years and ten in life
You ‘d have to say “What were these guys on”

Oh it’s chemistry yes the chemistry was right
For t’was a no brainer , I knew I wasn’t wrong

A story of Australian terms plants and wild life
Under this Oz Angel,who tried to get me gone
Something clicked, I had to make her my wife.
That took a good six months to bring together
Racing up n down from Sydney to Melbourne
And we did the road trip up to Sydney to live
Loving the old Aussie towns on the route
In fact we had a year renting in Manley NSW
A story of Australian terms plants and wildlife
New words and phrases and broad humour

Terms like tucker and strine and wowser
Echidna ? that burrowing egg laying mammal
Ringtail possums sitting on the garden fences
Many ,varied and colourful birds in life abound
Some so vocal with a cacophony of sound.

Phil and Barbara born on different continents
Living seventy years on different continents.
And now coming together in a beautiful bond
Nothing to compare in a hundred n fifty years.
That’s the extent of our joint living years.
Segregated on two separate continents

An “ Acrostic” tribute to my darling girl.
Now having met by chance at a family party
Drawn together to form the ultimate affair

Would you not like to hear more about us?
I was scared to venture off the beaten track.
Like I am supposed to be talking nature
Dinkum is something genuinely honest
Love is honest , love is unconditional
I want to make this poem so very honest
Furphy gave rise to an unfounded rumour
Exactly ! Furphy was the early water carrier

An  “Acrostic “ tribute to my darling girl.
Now I know she deserves another tribute.

And I for sure will give it to my dearest one
Coolgardie safe for keeping food cool
Roo meat is tender if you keep it out the sun.
Ockers abound those matey unpolished males
Smoking away their lives in designated areas
These men are the salt of the earth,sociable
I would oft sit in the smoking area and blah
Conversations diverse But I don’t smoke.

Pavlova graces many a table covered in fruit
On the occasional meal out we may partake
Especially at our birthday anniversary treats
Those dates so special in our calendar
I remember June before last we made a trip
Coming over the beautiful Blue Mountains

The trip we made was to Bathurst in NSW
Reminiscing in the town of Barbara’s birth
I was enchanted by the fertile landscapes
Backblocks n outback. Remote country areas
Urgent that we found the ancient homestead
Then met Barbs cousin who still farms there
Even though  Seventy years had passed since

Turned out that he was orphaned as a child
Orphaned when his mother died in childbirth

My God, times were tough in those days.
Yet how I ramble? I should be teaching nature

Diligently I shall try to stick to the point.
A story of Australian terms plants and wildlife.
Ringtail possums possesses essential stoicism
Larrikin ? beware of that grog filled hooligan
It looks like a possum especially when drunk.
Now we were sometimes awakened by them.
Grog is the devils brew if VB is consumed

Grant me a moment of reflection to the finale
I got little to show for my poem of Nature
Rightly this is a tribute to my Darling girl
Let no man think I fantasise. This grief is real.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~.
Written by Philip. 4th. October 2018.

I was sitting in the chat, with big dumb Mike
he showed us his mask, it was a terrible site

Boston Chickie was quiet and subdued
, Shelby, Cindy, Katie, Rachel, kind of set the mood

Ciggy came into the chat with his well well well
And Steve replayed to Ciggy you look like you are from hell

Raven had beautiful eyes and lips of wonder
Wolf Bracker was downing the sauce like a pirate in plunder

Tucker zone he was there as well
and Romeo, Ken, Robert and Al we all came out of our shell

Away up the top  in Australia
Simply days drive from anywhere at all~
We were camped on the side of a river bank
Not far from a wet season water fall~
Running outa food to some extent
I assured them we were fine~
That I as camp cook had enough to last us
And tonight as usual we were gonna dine~
We were up there on a top end fishing trip
And Id been up there before~
Where the best fish were only caught
In the land that I adore~
One bloke had a friend with him
Who was a city well fed chum~
And he kept boasting how his wife could cook
As he sat swigging on the last of his ***~
I knew they were going up stream for the day
To fish and do some prospecting up the way~
And I told them tonight a real Irish stew
And he replied that sounds real good ay~
He said no way I can eat that bush tucker
I gotta have whats proper and comes from shops~
I don't eat that out back wild bush Tucker stuff
It ll never pass through my chops~
But Irish stew yes that ll do
It sounds real good ta me~
When we get back from up the track
I ll have my share you wait an see~
So they left in one direction
And I left in the other~
Hoping the thick bushland would act as
To my rifle shots a cover~
I shot a Roo and a Goanna
A Bandicoot and one wild cat~
And then I shot a large parrot
Got a young croc in the water and headed back~
A little ways from the camp
I used a fallen log as a butchers block~
And then I got this big bucket full
Of meaty bits right to the top~
The fire now lit and big cooking *** half full
I went on a wild herb search~
And when down by the river again
I got my self a pool trapped perch~
Added it as well to the stew
With bush herbs and thickened with some flour~
And I can tell in awhile it smelt so good
When they d be due back in about an hour~
Had honey Id robbed from a distant hive
So I made a patty cake or two~
With what flour I had left
Yep .... That ll surely do~
Well when they got back the aroma drifted
And they picked it up down the track~
And couldn't wait to eat the lot
And complimented the cook for the snack~
The city bloke that did all the complaining
About running out of food~
Said he was sorry that he went on a bit
And didn't mean to be at all rude~
He said Id have died if I had to eat bush Tucker
And believe me it is true~
In all my life .. including the wife
Never tasted a better Irish stew~

Terrence Michael Sutton
copyright ( 1970 )  .....2018

1.** Calloused hands reached out to intertwine with my own.
Once soft, baby hands,
were now nothing
but rough.
I can't say that it bothered me, though.

Especially whenever they were on my own flesh.

2. My favorite time to be with you
is on Sundays.
We lay in your bed,
forget the world,
and smell each others' skin.
I've found my own bed to become foreign.

3. I can't help but notice how much you remind
me of someone I don't know.
Every time I look at you,
it's like I'm staring into a face I don't even know.
Whenever your hands run though my hair,
I'm almost frightened.

Will you hurt me?
I'm starting to memorize you.

4. Whenever you first began to notice me,
I was obviously nervous.

And now that you love me,
I can't stop scratching my hands.

5. If you could,
would you give me the moon?
Or would you continue to
sit in your car,
and scream out
meaningless lyrics?

My thoughts are  LOUD
And silence, --exists still--

Silence kills
It leaves open wounds
That stings as of strong alcohol
Sipped or chugged down

Leaving me to want to sink in
Wanting not to be saved
Wanting to escape this pain
I no longer want to feel

Wanting to break the silence
Every part killing me inside and out
But too depressed to even care
For the hurt that I feel within

The silence screams in the lonely heart.
Terrorizing fears fill the void vessel.
A loyal code with the sly predator.

No one comprehends, no one befriends.
Until the silence speaks with lethal force, no one can prepare.

The wind whispered words powered by popularity.
"If they don't converse with you, they'll converse about you."
The helpless soul flew, yes without wings.
From the concrete jungle, the industrial swing.
In one breath, the silence ended everything.

**Now the next day, they all knew the silent killer.

Friday April 10


Walking in Limbo

a man finds himself alone
in a dark forest
filled with strange trees
and hears voices
in the wind

he walks forward
towards a light
in the forest

and soon finds himself
confronted by a ghostly image
the dead are all around
and he realizes
that he has died

and he is wandering
in limbo
he walks towards the light

and sees a man
at a desk
who asks his name

he says his name
and the man
smiles and tells him
welcome to limbo

join the others
to wait your turn
for judgement is due

and the man
walks back
through the haunted forest

trying to remember how he died
but he has no memory
of his past life

and is doomed
to wander in limbo
stuck between time
and worlds

comforted by the ghosts
around him
and the light
in the forest

writers digest prompt to write an ekphrastic  Poem




New Bodies in New Era

we are living
in a SF world
things are changing
at breath taking speeds

nowhere more
than with the coming biomedical revolution
soon we will be confronted
with the reality

that we can live forever
in new bodies
grown for us
in laboratories

with our memories intact
and I can hardly wait
want to throw off
this aging 65-year old body

and get a new 20-old perfect body
boy, I can’t wait

I would be come
what I always wanted to be

6 foot 6 inches tall
perfect athletic basketball body

perfect visions
perfect hearing
perfect smelling
perfect teeth



well behave hair
no more learning disability
no more coordination problems

no more fibromyalgia
no more arthritis either
no more aching aging pain
no more mental fog

god,
I can hardly wait
hope it happens
before I die

and I hope
I can live
on forever
with my wife

also transformed
into a perfect
**** as hell
new body

poetry soup prompt to write a poem about changes

life interrupted by corona


we live in a strange world
life interrupted by corona
the virus spread throughout the world
disrupting everything

putting life on hold
as more people
hunkered down
waiting for the virus

to pass over us
like in biblical times
the virus
will test us all

life interrupted
on hold
until the virus
spreads through the world

and then
we will all
go back
to life interrupted

writing.com Daily Dew Drop interruption


Saudade for friends I have lost

as I get older
I lose more people
every year

more people I knew
have died moving on
and I mourn their lost friendship

wished I had been
a better friend for them
and knew them better

and with the corona virus
spreading around the world
I will lose so many more

in the coming year
as the virus spreads
its malignancy far and wide

I lost my father due to cancer in 1985
and my sister
due to a freak illness in 2007

and my mother
due to Alzheimer’s in 2005
and my father-in-law as well in 2007

Demel Tucker
high school debate teammate
dead of *** in 1995

Julian Bartley and his son
died in a terrorist bombing
in Nairobi in 1998

Jon Weber college roommate
dead due to prostate cancer
in 2000

Paul Simon  friend from the visa line
dropped dead of a heart attack
in 2004

Ted Halstead
one of my best bosses
died of heart attack in 2007

Chris Richard
one of my former bosses
from my days in Bangkok

dropped dead of a heart attack
shortly before we were due
to have lunch in 2014


and so many others
I have lost
along the way

and soon there will be
so many more
as I get old in the corona era




my lover’s body inspires me

my lover
Lover’s face
inspires me

Filled ****
as hell
still got it

drives me
wild desires
tonight

concrete poem - national poetry month prompt day 9


Vogan Poetry inspires us all

Couth super- of  the world
trailer, stringendo travels afar
Rent center bank me bark me
recipe, stringendo.for sure for sure

National poetry month prompt  day eight Vogan Bot Poetry


The end of the world news depresses me

the end of the world new
depresses me
makes me want to shout and scream

**** leave me alone
to deal with my grief
amid the death and destruction

watching CNNMSNBCFOXBBC media nonstop
filled with essential dread
the end of the world is upon us

from the screaming news media
spreading forth across the land
fake news screams the president

all is alright he proclaims
no one believes his 16,000 lies
and so it goes

we are drowning with information
coming at us so fast
and furious

When will it end my friend
is anyone’s guess
in the long run we are dead

National poetry Month Day Seven poem inspired by the news


the Devil speaks In the Garden of Earthly Delights

in the garden of earthly delights
the devil makes a covert appearance
disguised as always

he wanders about the world
corrupting everything
with his evil foul deeds

the devil turns to me
and says welcome to my world
human

you will soon be mine
death and destruction
revenge is mine

you will all die
i decree it
and he laughs

and continues to corrupt
the garden of Eden
and earthly delights


ekphrastic garden of earthly delights national poetry month prompt day 6

president trump haunts my Dream

president Trump
haunts my dreams
daily dystopian nightmares
as he daily proclaims
the end to the republic

as he ushers in fascism
with his every lie
he corrupts the world
and I hate
seeing his bloated fat ugly body

that haunts my every dream
as I watch him  rant and rage
against my old friends,
his enemies in the deep state
ushering in chaos and destruction


National Poetry Month day four prompt image from a dream



ten words random rhymes

every day I see our president
Trump proclaims that he will be president
his image haunts my dreams
dystopian nightmares propels my dreams
as the president proclaims he is president
the end of republic follows
no one hears our screams
He ushers in endless dreams
fascism inspires
our collective screams

national poetry month Day three prompt  write a poem based on ten random words


674 Santa Rosa

my childhood home
for almost 10 years
was 674 Santa Rosa
Berkeley California

A five bedroom
adobe California home
on the side of a hill
at the bottom of the Berkeley hills

you entered on the top floor
across the street you entered
on the bottom floor
thus it was in the Berkeley Hills

the house
had a large deck
with a perfect view
of the golden gate

we used
to sit outside
watching the sunset
as we ate dinner

my Mom and Dad
would have
their nightly cocktails
on the deck

before retreating inside
to continue
their nightly fights
and arguments

I grew up
downstairs
hearing their constant words
of hatred, dismay and outrage

my parents were the proverbial
odd couple
perhaps
never should have married

but despite the hate
there was still some love
that kept them together
throughout the years

we had a rec room
with a pool table
and I hung out there
with my friends

my mother tolerated my friends
most of the time
she would be somewhat sober
until after they left

and the madness came
over her
as she drank her whisky
and wine

the basement room
was added later
was my younger brother’s room
later was my room

whenever I visited
from college days
hiding out downstairs
avoiding my mad mother

my old room lay abandoned
filled with books
thousands of books
that I had read over the years

when she died
I should have taken
all the books
instead I took

about one hundred
just no space
for the books
of my childhood memories

National Poetry month day two prompt specific place poem 674 Santa Rosa Berkeley California


My life appears to a dream


For I dream
of meeting
the love of my life

in a dream
she haunted my dreams
for eight years

she walked out of my dreams
into my life
and became my wife

yes my life
resembles a fairy tale
complete with a princess

that rescued me
with her undying love
and made my life complete

national Poetry Month Day One Prompt Metaphor for Life Dreamer




Trump Derangement Syndrome Blues

Trump haunts my nightmares
dystopian visions
soon to come true

fan story 15 syllable poem contest

Saturday April 11

To My Dream Woman Who Loves Me

to my dream woman
who has loved me so
over the years
since I first dreamt
of meeting her
thank you for finding me
and rescuing me
I just have three words
to say
I love you
Saran hae
and  in a million other languages
and will love you
until the end of time

writers digest prompt to write a x  Blank  x

BLACK OUT POEM

Black out Poem
God’s Punishment

Original text


During a press briefing today to address the nation’s response to the coronavirus pandemic, President Trump was asked about certain Christian pastors who plan to defy state lockdown orders and hold Easter church services this Sunday.
“I’ve had talks with the pastors, and most of the pastors agree … that they are better off doing what they are doing, which is, distancing,” Trump said, adding that the pastors want to “get back to church so badly.”
Report Advertisement
Trump then referred to a notorious pastor who sits on his religious advisory council.
Defend democracy. Click to invest in courageous progressive journalism today.
“I’m going to be watching Pastor Robert Jeffress, who’s been a great guy,” Trump said. “He’s a great guy and I’m going to be watching on a laptop.”

Jeffress is known for his litany of statements demonizing the LGBT community, abortion, and secular people. One of his most reviled comments came in 2015 when he said the 9/11 attacks were God’s punishment on America for abortion.
“People ask me all the time,” Jeffress said during a speech at Liberty University. “‘Well, I just don’t understand why God wouldn’t protect our nation and he would allow these radical Muslims in 2001 to **** 3,000 of our citizens and why God doesn’t protect us. Surely, God doesn’t use pagans to bring judgment upon his own people, does he?’”


“I’ve had talks with the pastors, and most of the pastors agree … that they are better off doing what they are doing, which is, distancing,” Trump said, adding that the pastors want to “get back to church so badly.”
Report Advertisement
Trump then referred to a notorious pastor who sits on his religious advisory council.
Defend democracy. Click to invest in courageous progressive journalism today.
“I’m going to be watching Pastor Robert Jeffress, who’s been a great guy,” Trump said. “He’s a great guy and I’m going to be watching on a laptop.”


Jeffress is known for his litany of statements demonizing the LGBT community, abortion, and secular people. One of his most reviled comments came in 2015 when he said the 9/11 attacks were God’s punishment on America for abortion.
“People ask me all the time,” Jeffress said during a speech at Liberty University. “‘Well, I just don’t understand why God wouldn’t protect our nation and he would allow these radical Muslims in 2001 to **** 3,000 of our citizens and why God doesn’t protect us. Surely, God doesn’t use pagans to bring judgment upon his own people, does he?’”

Black out text

the coronavirus pandemic, President Trump
hold Easter church services this Sunday.
“I’ve had talks with the pastors, get back to church so badly.”

“He’s a great guy and I’m going to be watching on a laptop.”

he 9/11 attacks were God’s punishment on America for abortion.
“People ask me all the time,” ‘Well, I just don’t understand why God wouldn’t protect our nation and he would allow these radical Muslims in 2001 to **** 3,000 of our citizens and why God doesn’t protect us. Surely, God doesn’t use pagans to bring judgment upon his own people, does he?’”

Poem

Corona Pandemic is Not’s God’s Punishment



Amid  the coronavirus pandemic,
President Trump
Attended virtual Easter church services
I’ve had talks with the pastors,
We need to get back
to church so badly.”

Rev Jeffries is  a great guy
I’m going to be watching on a laptop.”

Rev Jeffries said

The 9/11 attacks were God’s punishment

on America for abortion.

“People ask me all the time,”
‘Well, I just don’t understand
why God wouldn’t protect our nation
and he would allow these radical Muslims in 2001
to **** 3,000 of our citizens
and why God doesn’t protect us.

Surely, God doesn’t use pagans
to bring judgment
upon his own people,
does he?’”

I am sad to report

Rev Jeffries

I spoke to God

This morning

He confirmed

He did not cause 9-11

To bring judgement

On the US

For abortion

He went on to say

The corona virus

Is beyond his control

And he is not sending it

To punish the US

Or the world

His final words

Please tell Rev Jeffries

To simply ****

poetry super highway black out poem

coffee Whitney

my coffee
morning delight
all day long
not though at night
can not sleep
afternoon coffee
leads to nightmares lasts all night


writing.com Whitney poem form
  
coffee Hay Na Ku


hot
coffee
in morning

ice
coffee
afternoon

Drink
coffee
afternoon

will
soon have
bad nightmares

must
have my
coffee now

drink
coffee
all day long

no
way sleep
will come me

curse
of my
mad coffee

writing.com prompt write a Hay Na Ku Poem
Daily Dew Drop In submissions as well



women playing the lute contemplating God

a woman sits
by herself playing the lute

deep in contemplation
thinking of God's love
for her

thinking of the devil
and his temptations
she continues playing the lute

all poetry contest

Speakin’ in general, I’ave tried ’em all
The ‘appy roads that take you o’er the world.
Speakin’ in general, I’ave found them good
For such as cannot use one bed too long,
But must get ‘ence, the same as I’ave done,
An’ go observin’ matters till they die.

What do it matter where or ‘ow we die,
So long as we’ve our ‘ealth to watch it all—
The different ways that different things are done,
An’ men an’ women lovin’ in this world;
Takin’ our chances as they come along,
An’ when they ain’t, pretendin’ they are good?

In cash or credit—no, it aren’t no good;
You’ve to ‘ave the ‘abit or you’d die,
Unless you lived your life but one day long,
Nor didn’t prophesy nor fret at all,
But drew your tucker some’ow from the world,
An’ never bothered what you might ha’ done.

But, Gawd, what things are they I’aven’t done?
I’ve turned my ‘and to most, an’ turned it good,
In various situations round the world
For ‘im that doth not work must surely die;
But that’s no reason man should labour all
‘Is life on one same shift—life’s none so long.

Therefore, from job to job I’ve moved along.
Pay couldn’t ‘old me when my time was done,
For something in my ‘ead upset it all,
Till I’ad dropped whatever ’twas for good,
An’, out at sea, be’eld the dock-lights die,
An’ met my mate—the wind that tramps the world!

It’s like a book, I think, this bloomin, world,
Which you can read and care for just so long,
But presently you feel that you will die
Unless you get the page you’re readi’n’ done,
An’ turn another—likely not so good;
But what you’re after is to turn’em all.

Gawd bless this world! Whatever she’oth done—
Excep’ When awful long—I’ve found it good.
So write, before I die, ” ‘E liked it all!”

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The groomed dog lies
Clean upon my sofa,
Resting,
His reward.

Resisted he
The urge to flee
Or bite the handler
While the groomer
Plied over the sopping ****,
Clipped the carpet-ripping nails,
Coiffed and primped him
Head to tail.

Waking,
He nuzzles me
With a brown-eyed stare,
Sidling close to my old brown chair.

This canine friend,
Just a dog in mien,
Communicates his needs,
Comforts me in loneliness,
Amuses me with dog-face grin,
Reads and responds
To the state that I'm in.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

         A One-Line Dismissal of Tucker Carlson Isn’t a Poem, But…


                                   Democracy dies in dorkness

Away up the top out in the back blocks
Simply days drive from anywhere at all~
We were camped on the side of a river bank
Not far from a wet season come water fall~
We were running out of food to some extent
I assured them all we were just fine~
That I as camp cook had enough to last us
And tonight as usual we were all going to dine~
We were way up there on a top end fishing trip
And I'd been up there a good few times before~
Where the best fish were only ever caught
In a land that I came to adore~
One bloke there had a friend with him
Who was a real city well fed chum~
And he kept boasting how his wife could cook
As he sat swigging on the last of his ***~
I knew they were going up stream for the day
To fish and do some prospecting up the way~
And I told them tonight a real Irish stew
And he replied that sounds real good mate ay~
He said no way I could eat that bush tucker
I got to have whats proper and comes from shops~
I don't eat that out back wild bush Tucker stuff
It'll never ever get pass or through my chops~
But an Irish stew yes that'll sure do
And it sounds real good to me~
When we get back from up the track
I'll have my share of that you wait an see~
So they eventually left in one direction
And I eventually left in the other~
Hoping the thick bushland would act as
To my rifle shots a cover~
I shot a Roo and a Goanna later on
A Bandicoot and soon one wild cat~
And then I shot a large wild parrot
Got a young croc in the water and headed back~
A little ways from the camp where we were
I used a fallen log as a butchers block~
And then I got this big bucket full
Of meaty bits right to the top~
The fire now lit and big cooking *** half full
I then went on a wild herb search~
And when I got down by the river again
I got my self a pool trapped perch~
Added it as well to the Irish stew
With bush herbs and thickened with some flour~
And I can tell in awhile it smelt so good
And they'd be due back in about an hour~
I had honey I'd robbed from a distant hive
So I made a patty cake or two~
With what flour I had left at the time
Yep .... That'll surely do~
Well when they got back the aroma drifted
And they picked it up coming down the track~
And couldn't wait to eat the whole lot
And complimented the cook then for the snack~
The city bloke that did all the complaining
About running out of food~
Said he was sorry that he went on a bit
And didn't mean to be at all rude~
He said I'd have died if I had to eat bush Tucker
And believe me it is true~
In all my life .. including the wife
Never tasted a better Irish stew~

Terrence Michael Sutton
copyright 1970  .. now 2018

N.W.O.-owned corporations promote the freshest of youthful faces
having Hillary F. Clinton lesbian relations in crowded public places
Moral citizens must subdue these shrub-scouts with military maces
then bind them together with cheap lamp cord, twine & shoe laces,
before scrubbing the scene clean to obliterate all ****-diving traces
from mobs bleeding the white-funded black & sallow yellow races,
they take up  phony causes in nine of ten clinically-disproven cases
running Manchurian patsies & *** kittens through menticidal paces
A rosy future belongs to normal people, the more normal the better,
folks who appreciate normal things: normal pets like an Irish setter
and paying a street ***** with cash because she's a chronic debtor,
and yet her ****'s an amiable fellow: truly a self-starting go-getter
who crochets booties for newborns & obeys some laws to the letter
How many movies in Maine feature a crapped-out Joan Fontaine?
How much glucosamine does a diseased cow's leg bone contain?
There were no gregarious bean bakers in Hooterville's Green Acres
nor big queen Quakers, fatuous lean takers, spliced spleen shakers,
seldom-seen fakers, farmers as keen rakers, men called teen takers
Low sugar metabolism makes a chick act like Portland Hoffa Allen
in that she'll scarf like a starved pig, piggishly hogging water melon
or muskmelon or any melon that Montreal-melon sellers are sellin'
to your average Trenton mobster, fugitive or romantic paroled felon
who'd **** with depleted uranium Arab babies by incessant shellin'
& get away with it because America's corporate media ain't a-tellin'
just like they didn't tell when 1-dollar milk sold for 1 buck a gallon
and Americans wondered if Michael Jackson & Billy Jean'd marry
civilly in Dominica even though he was a pæderastic-gay-bait fairy
preferring to make it with some 11-year-old paper boy named Gary
in the ***** fields of Michael Landon's Little House on the Prairie
where S.A.G. cows grazed to produce cream for N.B.C'.s T.V. dairy
that made Victor French's fancy ice cream: French vanilla & cherry
that even Melissa Gilbert couldn't resist, who was so often contrary
on the set 'cause her adolescent mood swings did menstrually vary
in the '70's when broads were sexier as they were much more hairy
than “Johnny B. Goode” singer & women's room spy Chuck Berry,
who married a cousin who was flittier than Heinz queer John Kerry
& 6 points stupider than the porcupine stooge: old anti-Christ Larry
who chose his sister-in-law's sister as the bride most likely to marry
whose dipsomania meant that she'd imbibe fortified wine & sherry
as one could be subbed for the other when all choices ain't arbitrary
within fashion statements decrying the sci-fi of Gene Roddenberry  
while taking pseudo-fictive writings as celestially lunar and literary
masterminded by T.V. cockroach from Hogan's Heroes: Bob Clary
Give to me the possession of my hormones back for full absorption
as I'm keen on resuming the bony splinter means of bone resorption
while admixed by neo-commixed protocols of bio-ecleptic sorption
Let's stomp sun-burnt faces 'cause J. Edgar Hoover was the riddled
manufacturer of Malcolm X from a ***** mulatto known by Little
who scrounged while Jersey burned its cheap, girly skirts for a tittle
No one plays guitar more melodically than does cuchi cuchi Charo
whose passion for nature out-natures that of the lovely Al Malinaro
& the crapped-out juvenile actor who was known as Frankie Darro
whom all Californians knew was as straight as the straightest arrow
unafraid to stay the course & to keep righteously straight & narrow
under the same moral code that's served so well María Mia Farrow
who has sworn off the making of stew using vole, llama or sparrow
yet not excluding the animal delicacies of pancreas & bone marrow  
enjoyed by robbers Bonnie Parker, Buck, Clyde & Blanche Barrow
who, as bandidos Mexicanos, were obliged to steal Mexican dinero
☹ A wild man's on the loose who's hurting tourism as a tourist ******
☹ He's tall & menacing like the guy on T.V.'s F Troop, Forrest Tucker
☹ A ****** is on the prowl and he's ******* tourists as a tourist ******
☹ He looks like that F Troop sergeant O'Rourke, actor Forrest Tucker
☹ A wild ******'s escaped from ******* prison & he's a tourist ******
☹ He is a bad ******* **** like the ****** on F Troop, Forrest Tucker

you see one person goes, no, no, no, let me tease you

you are a hooligan, and we wanna tease you

no no no, we want your money, we want your money

give me your money, give me your money

you see you are still a young dude, your not like your father

no no no, don’t do what you used to do

no no no, you are so easy to tease

i tod them, i am not easy to tease, i am a nice family person

i don’t believe in being horrible, so leave me alone, i am a person

no no no, your not like me, you are still getting teased, buddy

no no no, you are still getting teased

you see your mate is like us brian, your not like us, cause your easy to tease

no no no, your not like us, don’t do tapestries, because your still a young dude

young dudes don’t do tapestries, and you are still a young dude, buddy

i said, i like doing art and if that doesn’t make me a young dude, well i am not a young dude

be4cause i want to be an artist, i am an artist

i don’t want to be treated like a hooligan, or my brother

i am a family person

no no no, your not a family person, no no no your not a family person

then he grabbed some tucker from his fridge and ate it, saying brian is still a family person

and then said no, don’t be like us, no don’t, be like us, buddy

because you are still a young dude, buddy, and you are not like us, buddy

i said, leave me al;one, i am a family person, and i don’t want to constantly be treated like a young dude to a tease

no no no, don;t do what you used to do, no don’t, do what you used to do brian

actually, brian that is what you are meant to do, ya know woosey

no don’t do what you used to do, no don’t

i said i don’t want to be treated like a little young dude to a tease anymore

please leave me alone, and then he said, no no no, no don’t do what you used to do, no don’t

and every time i moved around, he would say that i was a fucken ******, and then said no don’t do what you used to do

cause your easy to tease, briany, your so easy to tease, no don’t do what you used to do, no don’t, buddy

your easy easy, easier to teazse, i said i am not easy to tease, leave me alone

and then he said, don’t say leave me alone, no don’t

i am a family person, not a target to tease, so leave me alone, ****

no no no, don’t speak up for yourself, be like us, no don’t do what ya used to do either, no don’t

i am not a hooligan and they say, yes you are your still a hooligan brian, be like us

i said, no, i want to be a family person, and he said, no don’t do what you used to do

this is going on forever in my mind, please let me get peace