Bob McKenty


Hymns to the Horoscope

Aries is (Alas! Alack!)
A chronic ram insomniac.
Why are Aries’ nights thus blighted?
Counting sheep gets him excited.

Taurus, victimized by Time,
Has aged now far beyond his prime.
Too bad about the old ex-rake:
Too tired to stud; too tough for steak.

1 wm, no vu, and rent sky high.
There dwell pre-siblings Gemini
Whose mom makes plenty in her prime—
A surrogate on double time.

Crabby Cancer in love’s clinches
Doesn’t procreate—he pinches!
Since someone stole his hormone tablets
He raises welts instead of crablets.

Leo doesn’t give a damn.
He won’t lie down beside the lamb.
He’s too preoccupied, my guess is,
Lying with the lionesses.

Virgo, undefiled fair youth,
Considers sex to be uncouth.
Its vile delights she shall not lust in.
(She’s been reading St. Augustine.)

A weighty issue: what explains
These twin tin dishes hung from chains?
Are they the Scales of Justice? Nah.
They’re Warrior Wonder Woman’s bra.

Solitary Scorpio
Is scorned by everyone I know.
(He’d been a social butterfly
Till Herpes left him high and dry.)

Sagittarius of manly torso,
Though dashing as Don Juan and more so,
Like many in the comely class,
Deep down is just a horse’s ass.

Poor hapless sea goat Capricorn
Regrets the day that he was born.
(His mermaid mom rues, decades later,
The day she let that satyr date her.)

Aquarius, that Mickey Finn,
Filled up his water jug with gin;
Tried luring Virgo with his con.
(She blew him off for Evian.)

Nutritionists advise you ought
Not eat those tempting fish you caught,
For serious cerebral crises
Result when mercury’s in Pisces.

“Leo” first appeared in the last of the Light Year anthologies (1988/89)

When Bob McKenty first started writing verses to the signs of the Zodiac, he didn’t even know what his sign was. Now he does: Pisces—the Poet!