Doggerel

Doggerel by Michael R. Burch

The limerick is one of the most common and most popular forms of doggerel.

Animal Limericks

There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I’ll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I’m dressed.
I wouldn’t change even one spot."

Stage Craft-y
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can’t sing,
but now, here’s the thing―
just think of the tunes you can carry!"

Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.

The Mallard

by Michael R. Burch

The mallard is a fellow

whose lips are long and yellow

with which he, honking, kisses

his bawdy, boisterous mistress:

my pond’s their loud bordello!

The Platypus: a Double Limerick

by Michael R. Burch

The platypus, myopic,

is ungainly, not erotic.

His feet for bed

are over-webbed,

and what of his proboscis?

The platypus, though, is eager

although his means are meager.

His sight is poor;

perhaps he’ll score

with a passing duck or beaver.

The Pelican't
by Michael R. Burch

Enough with this pitiful pelican!
He’s awkward and stinks! Sense his smellican!
His beak's far too big,
so he eats like a pig,
and his breath reeks of fish, I can tellican!

The Hippopotami
by Michael R. Burch

There’s no seeing eye to eye
with the awesomely huge Hippopotami:
on the bank, you’re much taller;
going under, you’re smaller
and assuredly destined to die!

Other Animal Poems

Lance-Lot
by Michael R. Burch

Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!

Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.

honeybee
by Michael R. Burch

love was a little treble thing―
prone to sing
and sometimes to sting

Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
by Michael R. Burch

Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
the bees rise
in a dizzy circle of two.
Oh, when I’m with you,
I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too.

Generation Gap
by Michael R. Burch

A quahog clam,
age 405,
said, “Hey, it’s great
to be alive!”

I disagreed,
not feeling nifty,
babe though I am,
just pushing fifty.

Note: A quahog clam found off the coast of Ireland is the longest-lived animal on record, at an estimated age of 405 years.

Don’t ever hug a lobster
by Michael R. Burch

Don’t ever hug a lobster when you meet one on the street;
If you hug a lobster to your breast, you're apt to lose a teat!
If you hug a lobster lower down, it’ll snip away your privates!
If you hug a lobster higher up, it’ll leave your cheeks with wide vents!
So don’t ever hug a lobster when you meet one on the street,
But run away and hope your frenzied feet are very fleet!

Options Underwater: The Song of the First Amphibian
by Michael R. Burch

“Evolution’s a Fishy Business!”

1.
Breathing underwater through antiquated gills,
I’m running out of options. I need to find fresh Air,
to seek some higher Purpose. No porpoise, I despair
to swim among anemones’ pink frills.

2.
My fins will make fine flippers, if only I can walk,
a little out of kilter, safe to the nearest rock’s
sweet, unmolested shelter. Each eye must grow a stalk,
to take in this green land on which it gawks.

3.
No predators have made it here, so I need not adapt.
Sun-sluggish, full, lethargic―I’ll take such nice long naps!

The highest form of life, that’s me! (Quite apt
to lie here chortling, calling fishes saps.)

4.
I woke to find life teeming all around―
mammals, insects, reptiles, loathsome birds.
And now I cringe at every sight and sound.
The water’s looking good! I look Absurd.

5.
The moral of my story’s this: don’t leap
wherever grass is greener. Backwards creep.
And never burn your bridges, till you’re sure
leapfrogging friends secures your Sinecure.

Originally published by Lighten Up Online

Keywords/Tags: amphibian, amphibians, evolution, gills, water, air, lungs, fins, flippers, fish, fishy business

Woeful Waffles

by Michael R. Burch

for and after Richard Thomas Moore

I think it’s woeful

and should be unlawful

to eat those awful

tofu waffles!

Low-T Hell
by Michael R. Burch

I’m living in low-T hell ...
My get-up has gone: Oh, swell!
I need to write checks
if I want to have sex,
and my love life depends on a gel!

Nonsense Verse about Writing Verse

The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...)
by Michael R. Burch

Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts
at “meter,” I crossly concluded
I’d use each iamb
in lieu of a lamb,
bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded.

Originally published by Grand Little Things

The Better Man
by Michael R. Burch

Dear Ed: I don’t understand why
you will publish this other guy―
when I’m brilliant, devoted,
one hell of a poet!
Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie!

Fie! A pox on your head if you favor
this poet who’s dubious, unsavor
y, inconsistent in texts,
no address (I checked!):
since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager!

Nonsense Verse about Science

A*s-Tronomical
by Michael R. Burch

Einstein, the frizzy-haired,
proved E equals MC squared.
Thus, all mass decreases
as activity ceases?
Not my mass, my a*s declared!

Golden Years?

by Michael R. Burch

I’m getting old.

My legs are cold.

My book’s unsold and my wife’s a scold.

Now the only gold’s

in my teeth.

I fold.

Relativity, the theorists’ creed,
proves all mass increases with speed.
My a*s grows when I sit it.
Albert Einstein, get with it;
equate its deflation, I plead!
― Michael R. Burch

　
Hawking, who makes my head spin,
says time may flow backward. I grin,
imagining the surprise
in my mothers’ eyes
when I head for the womb once again!
― Michael R. Burch

Hawking’s "Brief History of Time"
is such a relief! How sublime
that time, in reverse,
may un-write this verse
and un-spend my last thin dime!
― Michael R. Burch

These are "subversive" poems of mine, pardon the pun:

Bible Libel
by Michael R. Burch

If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.

I came up with this epigram after reading the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven, and wondering how anyone could call the biblical God "good."

What Would Santa Claus Say
by Michael R. Burch

What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to Kill and Plunder?

For he’ll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!

When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,

when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?

A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch

Santa Claus, for Christmas, please,
don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . .
just . . . Santa, please,
I’m on my knees! . . .
please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!

Willy Nilly
by Michael R. Burch

for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah

Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
You made the stallion,
you made the filly,
and now they sleep
in the dark earth, stilly.
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
You forced them to run
all their days uphilly.
They ran till they dropped―
life’s a pickle, dilly.
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
They say I should worship you!
Oh, really!
They say I should pray
so you’ll not act illy.
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?

Less Heroic Couplets: Murder Most Fowl!
by Michael R. Burch

“Murder most foul!”
cried the mouse to the owl.

“Friend, I’m no sinner;
you’re merely my dinner!”

the wise owl replied
as the tasty snack died.

Originally published by Lighten Up Online and Potcake Chapbook #7

In an attempt to demonstrate that not all couplets are heroic, I have created a series of poems called “Less Heroic Couplets.” I believe even poets should abide by truth-in-advertising laws! And I believe such laws should extend to Creators who claim to be loving, wise, merciful, just, etc., while forcing innocent mice to provide owls with late-night snacks. ― Michael R. Burch

As one critic put it, the limerick "is the vehicle of cultivated, unrepressed sexual humor in the English language." But while some experts claim that the only "real" limerick is a bawdy one, the form really took off initially, in terms of popularity, as a vehicle for nonsense verse and children's poems. And the limerick has has frequently been used for political purposes. Here are are three muckraking limericks of mine:

Baked Alaskan

There is a strange yokel so flirty
she makes w****s seem icons of purity.
With all her winkin’ and blinkin’
Palin seems to be "thinkin’"―
"Ah culd save th’ free world ’cause ah’m purty!"

Going Rogue in Rouge

It'll be hard to polish that apple
enough to make her seem palatable.
Though she's sweeter than Snapple
how can my mind grapple
with stupidity so nearly infallible?

Pls refudiate

“Refudiate” this,
miffed, misunderstood Ms!―
Shakespeare, you’re not
(more like Yoda, but hot).
Your grammar’s atrocious;
Great Poets would know this.

You lack any plan
save to flatten Iran
like some cute Mini-Me
cloned from G. W. B.

Admit it, Ms. Palin!
Stop your winkin’ and wailin’―
only “heroes” like Nero
fiddle sparks at Ground Zero.

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved

I wrote the last poem above after Sarah Palin compared herself to Shakespeare, who coined new words, rather than admit her mistake when she used "refudiate" in a Tweet rather than "repudiate."

More Nonsense Verse

There was an old man from Peru
who dreamed he was eating his shoe.
He awoke in the night
with a terrible fright
to discover his dream had come true.
―Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch

The English are very hospitable,
but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable ...
or pitiless, rather,
and quite in a lather!
O bother, they're more than formidable.
―"Of Tetley’s and V-2's," or, "Why Not to Bomb the Brits" by Michael R. Burch

A proper young auditor, white
as a sheet, like a ghost in the night,
saw his dreams, his career
in a "poof!" disappear,
and then, strangely Enronic, his wife.
― Michael R. Burch
　

There once was a troglodyte, Mary,
whose poots were impressively airy.
To her children’s deep shame,
their foul condo became
the first cave to employ a canary.
― Michael R. Burch

There once was a Baptist named Mel
who condemned all non-Christians to hell.
When he stood before God
he felt like a clod
to discover His Love couldn’t fail!
― Michael R. Burch

Doggerel about Doggerel

The Board
by Michael R. Burch

Accessible rhyme is never good.
The penalty is understood―
soft titters from dark board rooms where
the businessmen paste on their hair
and, Walter Mitties, woo the Muse
with reprimands of Dr. Seuss.

The best book of the age sold two,
or three, or four (but not to you),
strange copies of the ones before,
misreadings that delight the board.
They sit and clap; their revenues
fall trillions short of Mother Goose.

Longer Doggerel

When I Was Small, I Grew
by Michael R. Burch

When I was small,
God held me in thrall:
Yes, He was my All
but my spirit was crushed.

As I grew older
my passions grew bolder
even as Christ grew colder.
My distraught mother blushed:

what was I thinking,
with feral lust stinking?
If I saw a girl winking
my face, heated, flushed.

“Go see the pastor!”
Mom screamed. A disaster.
I whacked away faster,
hellbound, yet nonplused.

Whips! Chains! Domination!
Sweet, sweet, my Elation!
With each new sensation,
blue blood groinward rushed.

Did God disapprove?
Was Christ not behooved?
At least I was moved
by my hellish lust.

Happily Never After
by Michael R. Burch

Happily never after, we lived unmerrily
(write it!―like disaster) in Our Kingdom by the See

as the man from Porlock’s laughter drowned out love’s threnody.

We ditched the red wheelbarrow in slovenly Tennessee
and made a picturebook of poems, a postcard for Tse-Tse,
a list of resolutions we knew we couldn’t keep,
and asylum decorations for the King in his dark sleep.

We made it new so often strange newness, wearing old,
peeled off, and something rotten gleamed yellow, not like gold:―
like carelessness, or cowardice, and redolent of pee.
We stumbled off, our awkwardness―new Keystone comedy.

Huge cloudy symbols blocked the sun; onlookers strained to see.
We said We were the only One. Our gaseous Melody
had made us Joshuas, and so―the Bible, new-rewrit,

with god removed, replaced by Show and Glyphics and Sanskrit,
seemed marvelous to Us, although King Ezra said, “It’s Sh-t.”

We spent unhappy hours in Our Kingdom of the Pea,
drunk on such Awesome Power only Emperors can See.
We were Imagists and Vorticists, Projectivists, a Dunce,
Anarchists and Antarcticists and anti-Christs, and once
We’d made the world Our oyster and stowed away the pearl
of Our too-, too-polished wisdom, unanchored of the world,
We sailed away to Lilliput, to Our Kingdom by the See
and piped the rats to join Us, to live unmerrily
hereever and hereafter, in Our Kingdom of the Pea,
in the miniature ship Disaster in a jar in Tennessee.

Doggerel about Dogs

Dog Daze
by Michael R. Burch

Sweet Oz is a soulful snuggler;
he really is one of the best.
Sometimes in bed
he snuggles my head,
though he mostly just plops on my chest.

I think Oz was made to love
from the first ray of light to the dark,
but his great love for me
is exceeded (oh gee!)
by his Truly Great Passion: to Bark.

Oz is the Boss!
by Michael R. Burch

Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!

He barks like a tyrant
for treats and a hydrant;
his voice far more regal
than mere greyhound or beagle;
his serfs must obey him
or his yipping will slay them!

Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!

Excoriation of a Treat Slave
by Michael R. Burch

I am his Highness’s dog at Kew.
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
―Alexander Pope

We practice our fierce Yapping,
for when the treat slaves come
they’ll grant Us our desire.
(They really are that dumb!)

They’ll never catch Us napping―
our Ears pricked, keen and sharp.
When they step into Our parlor,
We’ll leap awake, and Bark.

But one is rather doltish;
he doesn’t understand
the meaning of Our savage,
imperial, wild Command.

The others are quite docile
and bow to Us on cue.
We think the dull one wrote a poem
about some Dog from Kew

who never grasped Our secret,
whose mind stayed think, and dark.
It’s a question of obedience
conveyed by a Lordly Bark.

But as for playing fetch,
well, that’s another matter.
We think the dullard’s also
as mad as any hatter

and doesn’t grasp his duty
to fling Us slobbery balls
which We’d return to him, mincingly,
here in Our royal halls.

Bed Head, or, the Ballad of
Beth and her Fur Babies
by Michael R. Burch

When Beth and her babies
prepare for “good night”
sweet rituals of kisses
and cuddles commence.

First Wickett, the eldest,
whose mane has grown light
with the wisdom of age
and advanced senescence
is tucked in, “just right.”

Then Mary, the mother,
is smothered with kisses
in a way that befits
such an angelic missus.

Then Melody, lambkin,
and sweet, soulful Oz
and cute, clever Xander
all clap their clipped paws
and follow sweet Beth
to their high nightly roost
where they’ll sleep on her head
(or, perhaps, her caboose).

Naughty Doggerel

Dee Light Full
by Michael R. Burch

A cross-dressing dancer, “Dee Lite,”
wore gowns luciferously bright
till he washed them one day
the old-fashioned way ...
in bleach. Now he’s “Sister Off-White.”

Severance
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a bubbly bartender,
a transvestite who went on a bender.
“So I cut myself off,”
she cried with a sob,
“There’s the evidence, there in the blender!”

Light verse and nonsense verse …

Less Heroic Couplets: Mini-Ode to Stamina

by Michael R. Burch

When you’ve given so much

that I can’t bear your touch,

then from a safe distance

let me admire your persistence.

The Trouble with Elephants: a Word to the Wise

by Michael R. Burch

An elephant never forgets

which is why they don’t make the best pets:

Jumbo may well out-live you,

but he’ll never forgive you

so you may as well save your regrets!

Updated Advice to Amorous Bachelors

by Michael R. Burch

At six-thirty,

feeling flirty,

I put on the hurdy-gurdy ...

But Ms. Purdy,

all alert-y,

kicked me where I’m sore and hurty.

The moral of my story?

To avoid a fate as gory,

flirt with gals a bit more w***e-y!

Trump’s real goals are obvious

and yet millions of Americans remain oblivious.

�"Michael R. Burch

Cover Girl

by Michael R. Burch

Cunning

at sunning

and dunning,

the stunning

young woman’s in the running

to be found nude on the cover

of some patronizing lover.

In this case the cover is a bed cover, where the enterprising young mistress is about to be covered herself.

First Base Freeze

by Michael R. Burch

I find your love unappealing

(no, make that appalling)

because you prefer kissing

then stalling.

Paradoxical Ode to Antinatalism

by Michael R. Burch

A stay on love

would end death’s hateful sway,

someday.

A stay on love

would thus BE love,

I say.

Be true to love

and thus end death’s

fell sway!

Less Heroic Couplets: Funding Fundamentals

by Michael R. Burch

"I found out that I was a Christian for revenue only and I could not bear the thought of that, it was so ignoble." - Mark Twain

Making sense from nonsense is quite sensible! Suppose

you’re running low on moolah, need some cash to paint your toes ...

Just invent a new religion; claim it saves lost souls from hell;

have the converts write you checks; take major debit cards as well;

take MasterCard and Visa and good-as-gold Amex;

hell, lend and charge them interest, whether payday loan or flex.

Thus out of perfect nonsense, glittery ores of this great mine,

you’ll earn an easy living and your toes will truly shine!

Less Heroic Couplets: Crop Duster

by Michael R. Burch

We are dust and to dust we must return ...

but why, then, life’s pointless sojourn?

Less Heroic Couplets: Shady Sadie

by Michael R. Burch

A randy young dandy named Sadie

loves sex, but her horse neighs “She’s shady!”

The couplet above is based on the limerick below:

Shady Sadie

by Michael R. Burch

A randy young dandy named Sadie

loves sex, but in forms fancied shady.

(I cannot, of course,

involve her poor horse,

but it’s safe to infer she’s no lady!)

Less Heroic Couplets: Just Desserts

by Michael R. Burch

“The West Antarctic ice sheet

might not need a huge nudge

to budge.”

And if it does budge,

denialist fudge

may force us to trudge

neck-deep in sludge!

The first stanza is a quote by paleoclimatologist Jeremy Shakun in Science magazine.

The Limerick as Parody

Marvell-Less (I)

by Michael R. Burch

Mr. Marvell was ill-named? Inform us!

Alas, his crude writings deform us:

for when trying to bed

chaste virgins, he led

off with his iron balls ginormous!

Marvell-Less (II)

by Michael R. Burch

Andrew Marvell was far less than Marvellous;

indeed, he was cold, bold, unchivalrous:

for when trying to bed

chased/chaste virgins, he led

off with his iron balls ginormous!

When reading the second version of the poem, the reader can select “chased” or “chaste” or read them together, quickly.

I Learned Too Late

by Michael R. Burch

“Show, don’t tell!”

I learned too late that poetry has rules,

although they may be rules for greater fools.

In any case, by dodging rules and schools,

I avoided useless duels.

I learned too late that sentiment is bad:

that Blake and Keats and Plath had all been had.

In any case, by following my heart,

I learned to walk apart.

I learned too late that “telling” is a crime.

Did Shakespeare know? Is Milton doing time?

In any case, by telling, I admit:

I think such rules are s**t.

Limericks

There once was a poet from Tennessee

who was known to indulge in straight Hennessey

for his heart had been broken

and cruelly ripped open

by an ice-hoarding Dame of Paree.

�"Michael R. Burch

A coquettish young lady of France

longed to have lusty men in her pants,

but in lieu of real joys

she settled for boys,

then berated her lack of romance.

�"Michael R. Burch

A virginal lady of France

longed to have a ménage in her pants

but in lieu of real boys

she settled for toys

& painted pinkies to make her bits dance.

�"Michael R. Burch

There was a young lady of France

Who’d let cute boys root in her pants:

Where they'd give her the finger

And she'd let them linger

because that's the point of romance!

�"Michael R. Burch

A germane young German, a dame

with a quite unpronounceable name,

gave me a kiss;

I lectured her, "Miss,

we haven't been intro'd, for shame!"

�"Michael R. Burch

A germane young German, a dame

with a quite unpronounceable name,

Frenched me a kiss;

I admonished her, "Miss,

you’ve left me twice tongue-tied, for shame!"

�"Michael R. Burch

A germane young German, a dame

with a quite unpronounceable name,

French-kissed me and left my lips lame.

I lectured her, "Miss,

That's a premature kiss!

We haven't been intro'd, for shame!"

�"Michael R. Burch

Although I prefer

onions

to bunions,

I still primarily defer

to legal reefer.

�"Michael R. Burch

Cancun Cruz

by Michael R. Burch

There once was a senator, Cruz,

whose whole life was one pus-oozing schmooze.

When Trump called his wife ugly,

Cruz brown-nosed him smugly,

then went on a sweet Cancún cruise!

Anchors Aweigh!

by Michael R. Burch

There once was an anchor babe, Cruz,

whose deployment was Castro’s bold ruse.

Now the revenge of Fidel

has worked out quite well

as Cruz missiles launch from his caboose!

Canadian Cruz

by Michael R. Burch

There was a Canadian, Cruz,

an anchor babe with a bold ruse:

he’d take Texas first

and then do his worst

to infect the whole world with his views.

Spring Was Delayed

by Michael R. Burch

Winter came early:

the driving snows,

the delicate frosts

that crystallize

all we forget

or refuse to know,

all we regret

that makes us wise.

Spring was delayed:

the nubile rose,

the tentative sun,

the wind’s soft sighs,

all we omit

or refuse to show,

whatever we shield

behind guarded eyes.

Originally published by Borderless Journal

The Humpback

by Michael R. Burch

The humpback is a gullet

equipped with snarky fins.

It has a winning smile:

and when it SMILES, it wins

as miles and miles of herring

excite its fearsome grins.

So beware, unwary whalers,

lest you drown, sans feet and shins!

Door Mouse

by Michael R. Burch

I’m sure it’s not good for my heart�"

the way it will jump-start

when the mouse scoots the floor

(I try to kill it with the door,

never fast enough, or

fling a haphazard shoe ...

always too slow too)

in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion

absurdly inconvenient for mashin’,

till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’,

make us both early candidates for heaven.

Ding Dong ...

by Michael R. Burch

for Fliss

An impertinent bit of sunlight

defeated a goddess, NIGHT.

Hooray!, cried the clover,

Her reign is over!

But she certainly gave us a fright!

Be very careful what you pray for!

by Michael R. Burch

Now that his T’s been depleted

the Saint is upset, feeling cheated.

His once-fiery lust?

Just a chemical bust:

no “devil” cast out or defeated.

The Flu Fly Flew

by Michael R. Burch

A fly with the flu foully flew

up my nose�"thought I’d die�"had to sue!

Was the small villain fined?

An abrupt judge declined

my case, since I’d “failed to achoo!”

Hell-Bound Hounds

by Michael R. Burch

We have five dogs and every one’s a sinner!

I swear it’s true�"they’ll steal each other’s dinner!

They’ll hump before they’re married. That’s unlawful!

They’ll even screw in public. Eek, so awful!

And when it’s time for treats (don’t gasp!), they’ll beg!

They have no pride! They’ll even hump your leg!

Our oldest Yorkie murdered dear, sweet Olive,

our helpless hamster! None will go to college

or work to pay their room and board, or vets!

When the Devil says, “Pee here!” they all yip, “Let’s!”

And yet they’re sweet and loyal, so I doubt

the Lord will dump them in hell’s dark redoubt . . .

which means there’s hope for you, perhaps for me.

But as for cats? I say, “Best wait and see.”

Menu Venue

by Michael R. Burch

At the passing of the shark

the dolphins cried Hark!;

cute cuttlefish sighed, Gee

there will be a serener sea

to its utmost periphery!;

the dogfish barked,

so joyously!;

pink porpoises piped *Whee!*

excitedly,

delightedly.

But ...

Will there be as much glee

when there’s no you and me?

Anti-Vegan Manifesto

by Michael R. Burch

Let us

avoid lettuce,

sincerely,

and also celery!

Rising Fall

by Michael R. Burch

after Keats

Seasons of mellow fruitfulness

collect at last into mist

some brisk wind will dismiss ...

Where, indeed, are the showers of April?

Where, indeed, the bright flowers of May?

But feel no dismay ...

It’s time to make hay!

I believe the closing line was influenced by this remark J. R. R. Tolkien made about the inspiration for his plucky hobbits: “I've always been impressed that we're here surviving because of the indomitable courage of quite small people against impossible odds: jungles, volcanoes, wild beasts ... they struggle on, almost blindly in a way.” Thus, whatever our apprehensions about the coming winter, when autumn falls and fall rises, it’s time to make hay.

How It Goes, Or Doesn’t

by Michael R. Burch

My face is getting craggier.

My pants are getting saggier.

My ear-hair’s getting shaggier.

My wife is getting naggier.

I’m getting old!

My memory’s plumb awful.

My eyesight is unlawful.

I eschew a tofu waffle.

My wife’s an Eiffel eyeful.

I’m getting old!