Paragoner
The departed’s misdeeds are all shed
From a eulogy. Buried. Unsaid.
As he’s laid to his rest,
He is praised as the best.
So you want be lauded? Drop dead.
Eulogies for Sports Heroes
(i)
Diving in Hawaii, Mort
Went down long and came up short.
(ii)
Bill’s first hunt with Daddy’s gang
Really ended with a bang.
(iii)
Since her sky-dive (all untrained),
Jan’s been rather scatterbrained.
(iv)
Barb, whose goal had been to wend
Through the jungle, gained her end.
(v)
Ray, atop a mountain slope,
Thought that he could ski it.
Nope.
Ascetic’s Song
The flesh is dross, ascetics know, ignoble, unrefined.
True self-denial’s to forgo the pleasures of the mind.
I shun museums, lecture halls, and haunts of the elites,
And all I’ll read are bathroom walls and Lauren Boebert’s tweets.
I spell things rong, and grammar ain’t a thing I wouldn’t flunk.
I never act or sculpt or paint, and only sing when drunk.
In place of opera–taboo–I suffer jiggle shows,
And buy each monthly Playboy to deny myself the prose.
And then, of course, the apogee of all delights I miss:
Instead of brilliant poetry, I sit here writing this.