Clothes For Sale

Clothes for sale, clothes for sale!
Clothes that cover from head to tail!

For four ninety-nine I’ve got fresh fish socks.
Adult size is “trout” and for children there’s “lox.”
Pulled up to your calves these fish socks look swell
Though it takes quite some time to get used to the smell.

Right over here I’ve got “Boa Neck Ties.”
They fit any neck ‘cause they come in one size.
These snake ties are stylish and not very frightening.
But the best part of all is these ties are self-tightening.

And just take a look at this cheddar bikini.
It comes in three sizes; Large, Small and Teeny.
We don’t sell a lot and the reason, we felt,
Is when out in the sunshine the suit starts to melt.

Art The Whistler

Art could whistle like a bird.
Just pretty notes and not one word.
Art would start whistling when he’d awaken
Then whistle right through his poached eggs and bacon.

He whistled at work, he whistled at home.
He whistled while “talking” to friends on the phone.
He whistled so much that it made people mad
Like his aunt and his cat and his Mom and his Dad.

“Enough!” they would holler. “You whistle by choice!
Now stop all this tweeting and please use your voice!”
So Art scratched his head as he thought what to do.
Then he puckered his lips and he whistled, “Wit Woo!”

“We’ve all had enough of your joking and toying!
And this whistling thing is just really annoying!”
But Art kept on tweeting in front of the clan
So they thought up a way to stop “Whistling Man.”

They pondered and planned on a way to stop Art
And they mapped out a plan and they drew up a chart.
Arts mouth was the source of the family’s unease
So they went and they stapled his lips to his knees.

Epitaphs V

Into beyond goes Jonathan Brannon.
Snatched from this planet when killed by a cannon.
A curious chap, poor John did expire
When he peered down the barrel and someone yelled, “FIRE!”

Epitaphs IV

Here she lies, Maggie Plantaine.
Taken from life, she was crushed by a train.
The cause of her death? Prepositional blunder.
She didn’t get “on” instead she got “under.”

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.