In the hierarchy of buffets, spaghetti is the king
no matter what competing dishes they may bring
to grace the laden, groaning boards: rich soups and shrimp and cheeses.
They advocate for salads, but somehow no Caesar pleases
half as much as pasta, well-laden with rich sauce:
ground beef, basil and parmesan, tinged with just a toss
of fennel and oregano. It simply has no peer.
We gobble it with cabernet, chianti or a beer.
We leave the smorgasbord serene, replete and full and sated.
Our emptiness has been fulfilled, our appetites abated.
No hunger pangs outlast thin noodles topped with smashed tomatoes.
Spaghetti beats out hamburgers and crisp French fried potatoes.
It beats out cured Virginia ham. It beats filet mignon.
It beats twice-baked potatoes and things put thereupon.
I’m sorely tempted by ice cream and pastries, cookies, tarts,
but such things aren’t exclusive of main courses that are starts.
A plate piled with spaghetti deserves a proper ending.
Just plan when loading up your plate. Dessert is also pending!
If I’m not mistaken, you are caught there in your bubble in your torn old housecoat with your legs covered in stubble. Your pupils are dilated and your eyes are blank and glassy. The air in this closed room has turned stale and dank and gassy.
I’m going to turn the light on now. You’ve been here in the dark too long, so I am taking you outside to the park.
You’ve mourned enough. It’s time that you returned to the living. It’s true years take away, but it’s also true they’re giving.
We’ll buy pistachio ice cream, feed your favorite duck and talk about how fortunate we are to have such luck
to be alive and free and here in this glorious place with ice cream in our tummies and sunlight on our face.
Go and take a shower and put on your best duds. Wipe away your dolor with water and with suds.
Blow dry your hair until it looks casual and sporty. I think that even you can survive this turning forty!!
Shoppers are in a quandary. They’ll put up with no delay.
We advertised new bargains available today.
They’re seeking phony purses from Dior and Michael Kors.
Noses against the windows, they’re beating at the doors.
But they’ve delayed our shipments and we don’t know what to do.
The faces of the ladies first in line are turning blue.
The advertising blitz we did turned out to be foolhardy.
Our Chanels are stuck in customs, our Hermès bags are tardy.
We have the fire hoses ready. We’ll use them if we must.
The ladies’ love of Fendi has turned into a lust.
If purses were religion they would be the most confessory.
There is no other obsession like the one for an accessory!
This real Hermès just sold for two million dollars at auction!!! Has the world gone crazy? It is the second most expensive handbag in the world.
Want to see the most expensive handbag in the world? Go HERE.
If you cannot still your tongue and it tends to flutter, my remedy’s a sandwich of bread and peanut butter. It is the perfect cure-all. If your problem is your stuttering, it quickly turns your dialogue into a slower muttering. And if your daily habit is reorganizing clutter, a palate full of pb gives a different way to putter.
Although you may be jealous that I have a sure solution for stuttering and puttering, please grant me absolution. Don’t hold my thoughts against me as I offer resolution to problems such as famine, global warming and pollution, then give my sure-fire remedy for war and revolution. I simply cannot help that I’m ahead in evolution!
I tend to wax nostalgic when I think of all the times I’ve solved our planet’s problems within my daily rhymes, for as I view predicaments in all the different climes— political maneuverings and other selfish crimes— all the foolish misdeeds best abandoned in our primes— I feel I owe it to the world to dish out paradigms!!!
If my constant words of wisdom set your stomachs churning, cause regret to fill your minds and set your eyes to burning, if you reject solutions, thereby all my wisdom spurning, considering “unfollowing” and never once returning, please reconsider doing so. Try being more discerning. And let me be your guru—your font of further learning!!!
“Jejune” is a word that I bet you don’t know. It simply means tedious, dreary or slow. Guileless or boring, simple or naive— artless and unworldly with naught up your sleeve.
When it comes to semantics, jejune folks won’t quibble. They do not distinguish between drip or dribble. When they need a haircut, please tell them they’re hairy. Calling them “hirsute” will just make them wary.
If big words should reach the apex of your tongue, consider taking it down just a rung. Jejune folks like small words like “pretty” and “cute.” Words like “alluring” will render them mute.
Words like “obstreperous” also won’t do. If you use a big word, they won’t have a clue. Don’t call it a “wen” when it’s merely a pimple. Things are much clearer when words are left simple.
Chritsine issued me a further challenge after she read their poem, so I wrote another. You can fine a link to her challenge and also my poem–short and silly– HERE.
Some girls are bent on wedding any Tom or Dick or Harry, but when it comes to choosing the man one wants to marry, a lass should be selective––very circumspect and wary lest she overlook what’s prime for his subsidiary. A lesser man will drop the ball a better man will carry. Is it best to know the difference? “Yes!” I insist, “Very!” Choose a man who makes you hum, and once met, do not tarry. Why settle for a mere canoe when you can take the ferry?
Nobility in dying is something I shan’t botch, for I know it shall be one that the whole wide world will watch. I cannot go by fire, for I’m sure I would be screaming as the water quenched the fire and set my flesh to steaming.
So unseemly and so crass. I’d find it unappealing. So, too, a rope around my neck, hanging from the ceiling. Jumping from a roof won’t do. Nor will a gun nor pills. Every sort of suicide just sports too many ills.
It’s clear that death by avalanche is the only one that will really suit me when the day is done. A certain swift clean fall of snow seems such a pristine death. A queenly mode of dying. Such a regal final breath!