"tuckered" poems
There's Dasher and Dancer
Then Prancer and *****
Comet and Cupid
Then Donner and Blitzen
If you think these are reindeer
Then you would be wrong
And it's not crazy words
In some Christmassy song
See, they are my brothers
Don't anybody laugh
For these are hillbilly names
From Polecat Path
It's a place in the hills
In East Tennesee
On the top of a mountain
As high as can be
Here, Christmas is different
There's no reindeer or sleigh
We use an old covered wagon
It works better that way
We make toys in the smoke house
For most of the year
While smoking our hams
'Til Christmas is near
Then we load up the wagon
With granny on the reins
Her wooden teeth all gummy
With rootbeer stains
Now the wagon is pulled
By my brothers and I
We're plumb tuckered out
'Cause people can't fly
Well, you get the picture
About Christmas in the hills
It's a hillbilly adventure
On wagon wheels
Now there's much more to tell
But it's time to run off
'Cause we're loading the wagon
Your friend, Rudolph
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 8:16 PM UTC
when you would have thought that nerve had gone, worn down,
when you would have thought that sense was a nub, tuckered out,
given a well deserved rest, after all, it was the best of each of us
maybe a glow, flickering in and out, a summer sun between clouds,
the occasional pang pinging, radiant, radiating in forgotten places,
luxury good, can’t longer afford, once, given with a happy reckless
crazy how love stays with me, low grade infection, ready to spread,
bud by morning, afternoon full blossom, black wilt by next daylight,
can’t decipher, finally decide, these tremors make old age life worthy?
absent, but memorized slivers, old poems, drive by glances of places,
hurt like hell so briefly, double over, no one notices, so fast dispensed,
it’s crazy how love stays with me,
and it’s a crazy that tastes so good,
hurts so awfully good, so badly bad
perhaps that is why behind my back,
not to my face, they whisper, call me,
the guy, still crazy after all these years,
just still crazy after all these tears, or just,
still crazy
Jul 9, 2023
Jul 9, 2023 at 5:45 AM UTC
The lone eagle makes its
solo journey over the vast horizon
I can see my flag in
the setting sun
as the lemon halo of fire
becomes a vivid pomegranate red,
the turquoise sky darkening
into a sea of navy blue
and wispy, white clouds
are hovering over us like
spirits in the universe
Lady Liberty,
overlooking the evening
of the New York Harbor,
displays her lit up torch like a
cosmic nightlight
She forever sheds light over
weary Americans
to remind us to
still dream the American dream
but that vision often seems
so out of our common reach
Uncle Sam has put on his nightcap,
a tuckered, old man is he
The crickets are chirping,
singing to me their strange lullabye
as I think I'll call it a night
Goodnight, America, Goodnight
Nov 14, 2010
Nov 14, 2010 at 10:33 AM UTC
Look what the cat done drug in
Slow on down... darlin’!
Hol’ yo horses!
Don’t go get’n a conniption fit
Or get’n your knickers in a knot!
Hush up
Or’n I’m a goin **** a knot in yo tail!
I’m busy as a one legged cat in a sandbox,
but I’m fixin tell what we got here at JuJu’s
Now lookie here...
we got
crawfish mild spicy
crawfish medium spicy
crawfish spicy spicy
we got
crawfish with corn
crawfish with sausage
crawfish with potatoes
we got
crawfish with red sauce
crawfish with pink sauce
crawfish with melted butter
If y’all a bit dry...
we got
crawfish with canned soda
crawfish with bottled water
crawfish with beer
crawfish with BYOB
Or we gots
jus’ crawfish
Go on an pick how yo’ want yo’ crawfish spiced, then go on an decide what yo’ wanna add! I reckon we gots dang near 362,888 ways to eat these here mudbugs
You might could get
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage
spicy spicy crawfish with corn
spicy spicy crawfish with potatoes
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage and corn
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage and potatoes
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage, corn and potatoes
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage and beer
spicy spicy crawfish with corn and beer
spicy spicy crawfish with potatoes and beer
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage, corn, potatoes
and beer
I could go on...
till I’m plum tuckered out... but...
Got it? You good??
You want mushrooms
Well, I’ll be
Don’t go axin... what we ain’t got
No siree bob, no mushrooms
We also ain’t got tea, sweet or unsweet
But sweet’s the only way to have tea sweetie
If you want soda, you can get
Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, Dr Pepper
Diet Dr Pepper, Hawaiian Punch, Brisk Tea
Or Root Beer
We also got shrimp... just boiled
We also got gloves... half a dollar
Well, I’m worn slap out!
Watcha have a hankerin for?
Take your own sweet time!
Sit a spell
You’ll soon be full as a tick on a big dog!
Happy as a dead pig in sunshine!
You’ll wanna slap yer mama!
Can’t decide hon?
I do declare!
Aren’t you precious?
(now... he startin get on my last nerve)
Still...can’t make up your mind?
Well... I can’t do it fer ya!
(bout aggravatin as a rock)
You picky?
(Lawd have mercy!)
Bless your heart!
© 2019 Jim Davis
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 11:41 PM UTC
Like you were a first trip to NYC,
or a perfect view of the cosmos
from that clearing on Sylvan Avenue,
I was agape and fawning while you sauntered
out from your double doors, to the end of your driveway,
to where I rocked on my heels eagerly
on Allen Dr. at 6:23
Come 7:15, we bedecked your body
with stripped and frayed Armani
in tribute to the Walkers we've seen;
cool-white fluorescence drew emphasis
on the harmony between your ivory simper
and each cobalt marble that rolled
and flicked beneath your tuckered eyelids
by some sort of beatnik artistry.
Frankly, my chest swelled with fever
when I noted the scrunch of your nose
askance to liquid-latex applications,
or the way black cherry sap wept
from the corners of your mouth
while dislodging the blood-capsule
in-between your molars
and your stately, hollow cheek at 7:50
And I noticed around 8:00,
when I had slowed you to a halt
near the crosswalk on Montauk
between Coastal and Le Soir
to fix the scar-tissue on your chin,
that if I ever knew there to be one,
you made a most stunning zombie
with my Tom & Jerry cap lining your scalp;
Which made the stain left by the makeup
worth the trade of my hat
in exchange for your company,
as we picked up a twelve-pack
at the 7-11 just down the street
before we returned to the party.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
mumbles, jumbles, into the night
my baby phoenix stumbles into its plight
a better life was merely imagined
but my dove, my dear, bitterly determined
huddled witnesses
there! in the square
a drove of fireflies, watching
her rebirth in fire, laid bare.
her tuckered tail, dead-centered --
shaking off crimson pearls of lunar lunacy,
henceforth, bleeding on her own time, her own tenancy.
her talons look at us.
we look at fiery lips that lash and scorch her.
never more before his penetrating gaze,
as her wings form a column of blaze.
she soars, she screams:
but to nothing but scorn --
the square-goers think she is just forlorn.
my dove, my dear, for your ****** death --
I pray it greets not a dragon's breath.
Jun 4, 2023
Jun 4, 2023 at 10:34 AM UTC
In the dark shadows of the night
I sleep with the crowd
Tuckered away in my nice cozy bed
Asleep i be not
For nothing frightens me more then these dreams of memories
I laugh I play
"This is fun" I hear them say
I cry I weep
"Lets go home" I hear them say
Where may that be I ponder
Walking around with shadows that dwell
The silent noise of a distant fan
Turns to a speed boat; so fast, so fun
Ends up to be a death trap so fast, lets run
What is this place
Where have I step
What must be done
Who are all that follow
How do I get out
The doors appear before me
As though my words have awoke them from their deep slumbers
Broken, splintered, nearly falling apart
All these door were ****
Except that one dressed in red wear
A red so bright
A red so dark
Never understood, until just a few moments ago
This is the door it has to be
And where it leads no one dares proceed
Its a dream my dear, I hear
Whose dream is it, they scream with fear
You must escape or be replaced, they whisper with haste
And we are nothing more then a vivid door, they claim
Follow the path marked green
This will show you the way
Marked with death you may not follow
Marked with pain you may not know
Marked with love you may not have
Marked with hate you will not feel
Marked with innocence you may not take
So go ahead take one
Be marked forever
Or just drift away
Either or you will not believe where you are
What is this hellish theme
A play, a sense
Well its make believe, a simple dream.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 2:24 AM UTC
Strawberries
*that tumble off grocery stands
of dusty wood-colored plastic
wiped clean with rank rags dripping ***** water
and a hint of bleach
to **** germs.*
Covered in dripping red
*gooey sweet syrup
that resembles sour sauce
of lo mein Chinese restaurants,
but encapsulates all feelings
to nerve tinglings
and lick chops to swallow drowned.*
Atop a table
*tuckered in the corner
next to borrowed chairs
that mismatch from three to one
and darkened grain and pale wheat
with a broken leg
that will one day topple to the floor.*
Retching from inhalation
*as breath stops short
lungs rejecting air
from the path of recycle-ment
like tossing used paper bowls
into foundations for isla de debris.*
Enlightenment of the general mood
*from stumbled laughter
into an inception loop
of spinning tops and trading card games
into a never ending bubble stream
like a train braking
and go to rest.*
Dead like a corpse
*as in sleep like the departed
where nothing can be bothered
except the alarm for tomorrow.*
Because I am scared,
for the shadow of despair,
that will rise as a lion's roar,
to claim the title "king,"
and rain down sorrow,
before the lamed warrior can raise a piece,
or a scholar a pipe,
to ward away evil,
and purify with ceremonious smoke.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 1:57 AM UTC
How "Gay" do you suppose, do you suppose you'll be
When In Hell you burn, for all eternity
-
Every ****** every Queer, every **** and ****
You're going to burn in Hell, while Satan ***** your ****
-
He'll tie you to a stump, barbed wire he will use
Sulfuric acid boiling hot, out his **** does ooze
-
Then there are the Demons...can't wait to get their turn
Pumping ******* pumping, in the place of no return
-
When they get tuckered out, a red-hot ***** they will use
They'll ram it up your *** while they put to you the screws
-
Yes-sir-ee you'll be so "Gay", while you burn forevermore
You ****** Queerass Fruitcake, God does you deplore
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 3:13 AM UTC
Martin may have been
******* by the Trump,
no matter what words
he strings together
the other side
holds trumps,
& Martin's only human,
but the other side
seem of baser
matter,
fabricated out of
cast-offs & junkmetal,
empty gourds
of echoing nothingness,
aching voids,
fathomless chasms,
with truncheoned guardians,
subservient menials,
boot-licking lackeys,
fawning & scraping
Goebbel-like go-fers,
Trump might have ******* him
cos Martin is plumb
tuckered & its
only day 30,
but of course
Martin has the luxury
of not being from
South of the Border,
a very poor man,
a junked-up hillbilly man,
a desperate man.
Martin can give in
to his so-heavy fatigue,
that could be
his choice,
& he's lucky
that way.
******* I'm so tired
of this idiocy.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 1:24 AM UTC
we drove through snowbanks today;
one for the first time behind the wheel
-- one with his eyes fixed on the road
and me, just another passenger along
for the ride.
it was still lacing over the
world with white, like nature pulling
up her comforter and settling herself in
for the season -- heavy down muting even
the quietest quiets; we followed suit, put
on the smiths and sent our tumultuous
evening back to bed to curl up with a
blanket or two, swap stories with tucked-
in and tuckered out madam nature until
we realize we're still alive -- and at this
juncture (both figurative and literal)
during the supposed shift in energy,
spiritual awakening, consciousness, etc,
we embraced the contradictory side
of our cynical teenage bodies and
sent our thoughts back to sleep with
the current of his lilting voice and the
subsequent waterfall of grieving
piano notes, tinkling and sending
splinters of icy shivers down each
of our spines as we drove on through
the gently imposed quiet of a cold
down comforter.
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 4:42 AM UTC
I've never cared too much for history, found no appreciation
for it's multitude of names we commit to memorization
there's a certain friend of mine, born in 1989-
Sir Maximilian Relaxilian- and he lacked all motivation
Since the origin of time, I have traced his family line
and their genetic disposition towards supreme relaxation
He's the great great great great grandson
of the founder of vacation.
And this founder's son Clyde, well, he invented the slide
Clyde's kid brother Greg helped patent the keg.
And Greg's great grandson Snyder sold the very first recliner.
So whenever Max was challenged, troubled, bothered, or confused,
He'd recite his family tree, and use the very same excuse:
"Hereditary mutations within each generation!"
And so he sat around and slept,
But never cleaned and never swept,
Never ran, never lept,
His promises were never kept.
Maximilian never managed once to get up off his ****
too tuckered out for bowling, just too lazy to putt;
He Never traveled to the sink nor had he once bothered to think,
too coward for a shower, found no reason not to stink.
And then one super lazy afternoon a quarter after two,
Maximilian had a visitor, I promise this is true:
A tiger stood outside the door which he was too lazy to lock
as if he'd try to find the **** beneath the pile of ***** socks.
And then of course, it's no surprise he couldn't hear the kitty knock
and once you hear what happened next I guarantee you will be shocked...
The tiger tickled him
and giggled him
until his ticker stopped.
So next time you think of staying in,
instead of going out-
or complain about the effort
that it takes to leave the couch,
Or refuse to leave the sheets or venture from a cozy pouch...
just remember Maximilian Relaxilian, King of Slouch
and stay out of bed instead,
stretch your legs and use your head
then count your blessings, kiss your mother
motivate one another.
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 9:08 PM UTC
I am exhausted by the endless pontification from
Professional apologists for every form of
Bad behavior from the protected class of the day.
I am tired of hearing from people for whom
Race / *** / color / creed / disability / ****** orientation
Is a hammer and the whole world is a nail.
I am weary of politicians passing laws
They neither read nor understand
And of the media that gives them cover.
I am fatigued by the endless lecturing from talking heads
About the need to strictly adhere to political correctness
And their attempts to quash speech and rewrite history.
I am haggard from having to deflect the constant, blatant,
Insidious efforts at indoctrination from the self-appointed
Thought police peddling propaganda masquerading as news.
I am burned out from the galloping gall,
Of apologists portraying criminals as victims,
While ignoring the harm done to their actual victims.
I am tuckered out by the double standard,
Of some racists who hide behind a perpetual cry of racism,
As the only acceptable answer to every difficult question.
I am petered out by having to listen,
To the mad ravings of newly arrived Representatives,
Barely out of diapers proposing ideas from The Twilight Zone.
I am drained by the injustice of heroes attacked as monsters,
Monsters treated as heroes and proudly worn on T-shirts,
And those who stand for nothing but take a knee for the National Anthem.
I am sapped by traitors who marry terrorists,
Name their children after other terrorist warlords,
Then demand the right to to come home to the country they betrayed.
I am worn out by life in a world ruled by madness that expects me to
Nod, pump my fist in the air and march in lockstep to an imposed
Drumbeat while ignoring the man behind the curtain orchestrating the show.
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 1:27 AM UTC
Teresa!?!
~Tanner!
Terribly
Tardy?
Ticktock ;)
~Time?
T-minus
10
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
2
-
12:00am!
~2020!!!
2020!!!
Tequila
Toast!
~Tequilla
Toast—
To
2020!!!
To
2020!!!
~Terviseks!
Terviseks!
~Tasty :)
Tequilla
Tesoro
~Tesoro?
Translated
"Treasure"
~Tasty
Treasure ;)
Top-notch!
~Tip-top!
(tender
touch...)
~Terrific
Timing :)
Terrific
Time...
~Totally
Thoughts?
~Tired
Terrible
Timing :(
~Terribly
Tuckered.
Together
Tonight?
~Together
Tomorrow?
Together
Today!
12:00pm :)
~That's
True!
Today,
12:00pm :)
Terrific!
~Till
Then—
Tootles!
© 2020 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
Jan 18, 2020
Jan 18, 2020 at 12:58 PM UTC
Holding a red, flowing scarf
on a day of all days
when leaves dance in circles
in corners tuckered away.
Enchanting weather today
with a gathering protest of winds
against an acrylic sky, opaque blue
grasping to steal sway a streak of red.
Laughter stumbles over and down
on a night of lonely nights
to be had over lost scarves
trickled away by cloy, boiling bathwater.
Phase in blackout, flickering lamp lights
where past looks back on future
and memories shift like the earth below
in constant motion
she cries
help me.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
I’d put my feet up but for this **** poem.
burning behind my temples,
I drove this far today to be alone.
Such a long mess of a day; I swear I’ve grown,
but I’m too old- crows feet perched above dimples.
I’d put my feet up but for this **** poem
If I yawn and stretch my lungs any more I’ll decompose.
I’d trade a kidney for a long shower to **** these road pimples;
I drove this far to be alone.
My eyes glaze like shivering chrome,
tuckered out from scanning lousy stanzas full of samples.
I’d put my feet up but for this **** poem
But I’m still packed and unshowered, staring at memory foam
And now, sitting with this pen in hand ain’t simple.
I’d put my feet up but for this **** poem;
I only drove this far to be alone.
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 7:28 PM UTC
It's the quietest time of night
Where the moon has peaked
All is hushed
And you're supposed to be asleep
But your mind plays games
Making noise that keep you awake
Mocking your restlessness and fears
Little monsters play tug-of-war
And swing from moonlit chandeliers
I Find comfort in the dark
A pitch black tranquility
But little monsters search for a thought
To keep me awake unwillingly
Heart steadies like the sea
Holding on to the evanescent dreams
Waiting for the pounce of little feet
Jumping on on you like a trampoline
They've finally tuckered themselves out
From running about
They curl up beside me
And count their sheep
Beside little monsters
I sleep
Jul 12, 2020
Jul 12, 2020 at 8:50 PM UTC
Phrases that I've longed to hear,
he has lined with my left ear.
Never done to create your own
I wait for a sign; maybe tuckered eyes.
Strained conversation,
oh I do dwell.
It is time to make cinch,
it is time for // time for bed.
Only to resume this talk of a rising tide,
repeatedly in my ponderous head.
(c.b)
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 3:43 PM UTC
walking down the road now
my car named ‘my writing’
abandoned 3, 4, 5, 10 miles
back
it’s hot,
too hot
and the sun shines down on me
making me sweat uncomfortably
and
the road is long
too long for me
because it seems like I’ve been walking forever
and yet I haven’t seen a sign of humanity yet
then it comes screeching down
the road; a car not used to the
speed it has now; and in it is
a man desperately looking for
me
he spotted me
before I spotted
him and just as
I first heard his
tires melting to
the asphalt he
was jumping
out at me his
tongue tied to
the thought he
was trying to
eject from his
body
his talk excited,
he said: “is that
your car?”
I stare blankly
“is that your car?”
“what car” I say
“the one on the side
of the road! that one!”
he spurted out grin
wide
yes,
I think
so
“fantastic!
let me give
you a lift!”
ok
I say
ok
I said
not knowing
what to think
he asked me question after question
(about the car)
and told me how it was a masterpiece!
a genuine miracle! a historic marker
that I must continue to bring to the world!
ok
I said
(I disagreed,
the piece of junk
had just left me in
the desert remember)
he called a tow truck for the car
he dropped me off at my house
he gave me $5000 dollars (for the car)
and then he drove off
smile on his face
I looked at the money,
the tuckered out car,
my house and thought:
How lucky. Maybe there
is something to this car
maybe there was,
because I just got
back in it and drove
down the highway
like usual
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 2:42 PM UTC
There's this place
I love to visit
When the world
Has tuckered
Me out.
It's a place
Not known to many,
Which works
Just fine for me.
It can be quiet
When I want to be.
Or raucous when I party.
It's a place
That comes to me
To wrap me up
And take me home
When the fringes
Of my soul
Become so frayed
And tattered,
Ragged and threadbare,
When the depths
Of my heart
Have lost all but one drop of hope.
This place is my haven.
And though I wish for you
To find the peace here
That I do,
This place is mine
And I just can't share it with you.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
Today I found my long lost Pet Rock
You know, the one from the 70's
I was sure years ago I'd lost him for good
Go ahead, ask if I'm happy
I found him on the side of the road
Just relaxing at doing nothing
I guess without me in his life
He was major bored or something
I picked him up and we both hugged
It was a very emotional moment
I know what your thinking to yourself
Kinda brings a tear to your eye now don't it
After exchanging the usual pleasantries
I placed him in a kerchief of silken lining
If I didn't tell you I skipped all the way home
You know I would be lying
Getting back to the house all tuckered out
We went early to bed
I fluffed a pillow up just enough
So Buddy could lay his weary head
I can't tell you how good it feels right now
To have my Pet Rock back home with me
At last my life can get back into
A mode of normalcy
Wait....You didn't honestly think I would end it here did you?
When we woke up early the next morning
I poured Buddy a bowl Fruity Pebbles
He looked at me rather strangely
As if questioning, what do you think I'm some sort of cannibal?
After that little speed bump in our relationship
To get our friendship back on track
I suggested we go somewhere special
Buddy suggested we take a nap
I'd forgotten after all these years
How much he liked to lay around
Guess nothing much has changed
On this, his side of Gravel town
Buddy and I do everything together
My Love for this rock, can't get out of my head
Where my life was once filled with immeasurable sadness
Now overflows with loads of joy instead
That is until the day we went to the park
And he wanted to skip across the lake
At that point I realize
He and I might have made a grave mistake...
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
less than twenty four hours after dashing off a poem
explaining why i wanted to die
found me experiencing physical duress vis a vis,
a bowel movement wherein waste unable to expel
from the **** of this guy
which bout with ****** obstruction
found me doubled over
with lower abdominal distress
whereby comfort found me unable to lie
down nor sit upright (with back padded with pillows
against the cellar brick wall),
thus severe bloating a bonus well nigh
and managed to muster the means to bare
frigid arctic vortex aire to purchase
the Acme brand Metamucil,
which akin to drano doth ply
thru the excretory tract
supposedly loosening the stools,
which optimism (product
didst earn claim to fame) generated a sigh
if that expressed intent
to cease livingsocial would try
humph enjoining
this lvii year old married male
to cede victory
to the grim reaper, who would vie
as winner de jure
to this common fellow invoking libretto
ohm resistant understudy waste not want not
allowing, enabling and providing relief,
without successful defecation
despite the oppressive urge to bolster this uriah
heap of balled up and tuckered i.e. pooped out
five foot and ten inches of lovely bones
thence mouthing retraction
of former thought to cease existing,
though a non-bull lever
in any power broker qua mankind
relief at long last
provided posterior answered prayer
yet, this scrivener scrutinizes
his recurring pain in the *** jagged torture
and asks
a rhetorical one word question "WHY"?
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 3:13 PM UTC
Please mister
Find me a home
I have me some money
I'll throw you a bone
Please mister
I worked all my life
I had me a place
A place with my wife
Cookie Construction
Tore my home down
They razed it to nothing
Leveled to ground
This city's so crowded
There isn't the room
For someone disabled
Who has paid his dues
Who served for his country
The red, white and blue
We'll give him some money
And throw him his food
We'll move him two counties
It's better for him
Then to let him live where
His life did begin
We'll give him new neighbors
We'll give him new friends
We'll give him a stamp card
To eat with again
Hey, you with the uncle
How come no grin?
I'm too tuckered; tired
For this mess again
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 10:09 AM UTC
Get down from there, my old man said,
before you hurt yourself.
Me and Little Sis were playing
in the hayloft where all the bales
were piled up high- so high
they liked to touch the barn roof.
I always liked to play
in the fortress the bales made,
like the castles and forts
in the picture book on Grandma's shelf
in the parlor. Pa and Grandpa
worked all day getting in the hay,
and when the day was done
they would sit in the parlor
and take turns drinking from the jug
on the shelf. After a while they would
start singing and cracking jokes
and acting kind of foolish,
and Grandma would holler at them
and tell them to act their age,
and when they got all tuckered out
Grandma would put the cork back in
the jug and put it back on the shelf.
One time I was out playing in the barn,
and I heard voices in the hayloft,
sort of a rustling sound, and now and then
a giggle, and I looked and saw
Big Sis and the farmhand playing
in the hay, and they saw me and
yelled at me, telling me to go away
and leave them alone. Later on
I saw where Big Sis was getting kind of fat
in the belly, and I said something
about it, and Big Sis got all mad
and threw her milk cup at me.
Pa said something like that's what happens
when girls make hay on their own,
and Grandma said that ain't
the right kind of hay to make,
and Big Sis got kind of red in the face.
I only ever saw Pa and Grandpa
make the hay, and when I asked them
what it all meant, they only chuckled,
and told me to go out and play.
I guess maybe I'll figure it out someday.
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 5:51 PM UTC
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty Dumpty thought he was clever and all
So bit by bit he stacked his bricks
And built it two hundred feet tall
Swinging his legs
And nodding his head
He looked down from the top
At small puckered wells
And small tuckered hills
Of the villagers all around him
And so time flew by
And his wall grew high
And higher
And higher
And in the heathens
As he touched the heavens
He cried, “Look up, bow to me!”
And so he went
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
All the king’s horses
And all the king’s men
Couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty
Back together again
But children,
Don’t be sad
But children,
Don’t be sorry
For that night the men swung their picks
And the women scraped off the concrete
And the children stole the bricks
One by little one
Till all that was left to his memory
Was the flat crown of the ground
Besides, the bricks weren’t really his, anyways
Mar 15, 2021
Mar 15, 2021 at 8:34 AM UTC