the sportsman

the sportsman


webster’s says a sportsman is a man

who hunts wild animals as a pastime

but it doesn’t seem all that sporting

to me for a heartless trophy hunter

to gun down a wild animal for sport


terrified of the stinky monkey man

his more docile prey see him as an

evil affront to nature with his noisy

guns and his sharp teeth for ripping

flesh and his eyes so full of murder


the sportsman is a very macho man

you should see him aiming that gun

and so carefully pulling that trigger

if he desires to be a real sportsman

he should hunt lions with his knife




As the old year

Goes out

And a new one

Comes in,

We’re reminded




And each year there’s

No doubt

We will vanquish

Our sin

When the old year

Goes out

And the new one

Comes in,

And each year we

Will flout

All our plans with


When the old year

Goes out

And the new one

Comes in.


After Christmas

broken bulb


(Not for the humorless)


‘Twas the day after Christmas, when all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stocking were flung on the floor without care,

The tree, once so proud, now stood lifeless and bare.

Little Sue’s dolly was missing her head,

John’s truck had a wreck when the batteries went dead.

There were boxes and ribbons and wrappings galore–

Huge mountains of trash on the pine-needle floor.

And ma in her undies, and me in the buff,

Had just settled down–we’d had quite enough!

I’d had too much eggnog and too many nuts,

And the fudge Patty made felt like stone in my guts.

When out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter;

Away to the window, I managed to trudge,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the fudge.

And what did my wondering eyes behold then,

But a huge garbage truck with eight garbage men,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a flash it was Garbageman Nick.

He was covered in grime from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bundle of trash he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a hobo just toting his pack.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

Yet seeing me there, he turned with a jerk,

And laying a finger aside of his nose,

He offered a gesture I cannot disclose.

He sprang to his truck, to his team gave a yell,

And away they all flew like a bat out of hell,

And standing there naked, enframed by the sash,

With my gut full of pain and my house full of trash,

I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight,

“Last call for trash ‘fore we all go on strike!”