My Brother Practices the Violin
When my brother practices the violin,
The cat runs and hides underneath the couch,
And she won’t come out for her plastic mouse
Or anything less than a tuna tin.
I don’t think the cat likes the violin.
When my brother practices the violin,
The neighbors all close their windows tight,
And turn their radios up real high.
And until he stops, they stay shut in.
I don’t think the neighbors like the violin.
When my brother practices the violin,
Mom says, “Ah, Mozart,” and hums along
And tells me that music is a wonderful thing,
With a look in her eyes and a big wide grin.
I don’t think Mom likes the neighbors or the cat.
Jokes and their Relation to the Unconscious
When I saw a man trip, and his head took some blows,
And he lay on the ground after falling,
I rushed over and told him, “My dog’s got no nose.
How’s he smell, you may wonder? Appalling!”
Once a busboy who’d slipped on a ripe avocado
Lay flat among kitchen debris,
So I asked, “What’s the capital of Colorado?
Don’t know? Then I’ll tell you: it’s C.”
With my dad in a coma, I whispered, “Hey, Pop,
I flew in—and my arms are sure tired!”
And his cardiograph made a sudden sharp stop,
And they said the old guy had expired.
The unconscious are not the most humorous folks.
I’ve assessed and had terrible luck.
They don’t even have a relation to jokes.
I think that guy Freud was a schmuck.