On Bondi Beach
I was writing an ode on the thong bikini,
But my wife said it didn’t need an ode.
The way it drops between like a strand of linguini—
“All sticky,” said my wife, “like a toad.”
And turns the nether sides into twin blini—
“The way you talk, one would think they glowed.”
Its two-tone walk, a movie score by Mancini—
“Like walking up a twisting, hilly road.”
The gargantuan effect of apparel that’s so teeny—
But my wife said it betrayed more than it showed.
So I gave up on my scanty beachwear poem,
And my wife and I held hands as we walked home.
A Trio of Ruthless Rhymes
John the baseball pitching champ
Played too close to a kerosene lamp.
Lost his limbs in the dreadful blaze.
Benched for good the rest of his days.
But wait! He may have one more place.
We can use him for first base.
Daddy’s angry, circling round
As if pursued by a demon hound,
But when Daddy starts to roar,
Nail his other foot to the floor.
“Dad is dead. We loved him so.
Is this any way to go?”
Mom says, though the tears are gushing,
“Just shut up and keep on flushing.”