Contemplating the Uvula

You’re just a little, teardrop-shaped, dangling lump of skin
That hangs down at the back of my throat with no real next of kin.

You sway a bit, both back and forth, when I breathe in and out.
Kind of like a punching bag before a boxing bout.

You get swept back when I ingest those rich and creamy sauces.
And then get tossed the other way when I am feeling nauseous.

Despite those minor obstacles I’m envious no doubt
Because it seems your job so far is simply to hang out.

Tattooed Dirt

You wouldn’t be that mopey.
If you never got all soapy.

Just think of the money you’ve squandered
On keeping your body laundered.

Wouldn’t you feel empowered
If you never, ever showered?

And the fame you will have gathered
By keeping yourself unlathered?

A full body, dirt tattoo
Wouldn’t save much on shampoo.

But your status? Full of fame-y.
Though you would be rather gamey.

Little Nell

Little Nell just loved the sun
Of this there is no doubt.
One day she stared right at it
And burned her eyeballs out.