Americans are tough as nails,
but we refuse to put on veils.
No matter what the bigwigs say
the nude face is now here to stay.
Delta, schmelta -- no big deal.
It seems as trite as glockenspiel.
The more the politicians whine
the more the people take a shine
to freedom from restraints and masks
and turn to more important tasks --
like picture shows, or baseball games
and cooking wienies over flames.
We'll not be masked again, I trow --
we seek a lethal status quo!
(to the tune 'Home on the Range.)
Oh, give me a home
where the nudists don't roam;
where the underwear stays quite unseen.
Where never is viewed
scanty clothing so lewd
that Hugh Hefner would call it obscene.
Bare, bare in the street --
where I'm seeing bold bosom and seat;
this summer the crowd
thinks full frontal's allowed
and my brain cannot hit the 'delete.'
I do not know for whom I speak
(unless it is the dentured clique)
but we are tired of the look
and the feel of comic book
on the big screen and TV --
what are daredevils to me?
I am old and still and staid;
I want no blood, but marmalade!
Something sweet and sour, too;
intelligent -- not ballyhoo.
But all I get are flying twerps
who must perform like Wyatt Earps.
Advertisers please take note;
my Kindle is the antidote!
Baseball pitchers are a breed
who feel pressured to succeed.
They have gotten pretty manic
throwing aero-damn-die-namic.
I'm not sure what all they've tried
to make their pitches curve and glide,
so this is just a partial guide:
Strands of bubble gum so pink
it makes umpires stop and think.
Bookish pitchers have been traced
to the use of library paste.
Mucilage from plants and snail
produce results that do not fail.
And of course a pitch is bent
with a dab of rubber cement.
Pine tar, asphalt, super glue --
in a pinch they all will do.
If a pitcher has chutzpah
he might even use some chaw.
In this techie age banal
could microchips be in the ball?
Or a nano-drone, I fear,
might sit astride the hurtling sphere.
Yes, pitchers are a breed that's wacky --
always searching for the tacky . . .
Chinese hackers in my soup.
How can such an ethnic group
fiddle with my internet,
making life so vinaigrette?
I stay up all night afeared
of ransomware and cyber-weird.
Ain't the heat and drought severe
enough to make me drink strong beer?
And the joeys chased by dingoes
give my stomach pink flamingoes.
Now on top of that these creeps,
whom I would like to label '*bleeps*,'
are out to wreck my peace of mind --
just pour the Foster's til I'm blind . . .
Americans are ailing, out of work, and in despair;
but furrin autocrats who pick our side have cash to spare.
We prop up shaky leaders with infusions from the mint
because we still are following some damn Cold War blueprint.
Like a mule we won't back up when once we pick a guy
to lead a foreign country, though he makes it a pigsty.
How long must we play Santa Claus and Dr. Seuss to those
who never show initiative but warn of dominoes?
Donald Trump,
the has-been frump,
mistakes the buzz
which he thinks does
surround the books
about his crooks
as something which
with proper pitch
will elevate
his sorry state
and mend his luster
and fans muster.
Sorry, bub,
but you're a flub --
and won't be back
on inside track
till ducks need visas
and Hades freezes.
Water witches are all wet;
how can anybody bet
on some rods waved at the ground
while the waver turns around?
Dowsing is baloney sliced,
plus a heist that is high priced.
It takes a special connoisseur
to locate any aquifer --
and always they are deep below,
and drilling to them is real slow.
By the time the work's complete,
the dowser ain't around to greet
an empty hole as dry as bone,
or help his victims pay their loan.
If you want to fight a drought
pray for rain and not a tout.
