How Many Roads…

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New Words to an old Dylan Song:

How many roads must a man drive down
Before he admits he is lost
Why when a man becomes married is he
unable to find his own socks.

How many times will it take ’til he knows
he has seen the three stooges enough

The answer my friend, I cannot comprehend
The answer, I cannot comprehend

How many shows can a man surf through
before the remote burns out
Why does he think that an intimate gift
is a Dustbuster Plus for the house

How many sounds can a man’s body make
before he sleeps on the couch

The answer my friend, is take two aspirin
The answer is take two aspirin

Why when we go for a romantic drive
do we wind up at Builder’s Square again
How many nights will he leave the seat up
so I land on cold porcelain

How men really feel is mystery to me
and probably a mystery to them

The answer girlfriend is driving me to gin
The answer is driving me to gin.

Ode to Horny AOL Men

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There are so many men that sign on AOL,
they enter the chatrooms and say I’m horny as hell.

Are they really that stupid and f***ed in the head,
do they think we want cyber and not a real date instead?

They try to impress us by saying they’re buff,
when in fact half of them blow their nose on their cuff.

They try to convince us they are thoughtful and sweet,
but we know when they chat with us they’re beating their meat.

They tell us they’re gorgeous, loving and kind,
when the truth is that most of them are out of their mind.

They tell us that they would make a really good catch,
the gals that they dated are what’s making them scratch.

They send us their pictures of how cute they are,
when you meet them they look like they been hit by a car.

They say they run businesses or some hot resort,
but most of them can’t even pay child support.

So listen up ladies, if they sound to good to be true,
it probably is and they just want to cyber screw.

Green Eggs and Hamlet

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I ask to be, or not to be.
That is the question, I ask of me.
This sullied life, it makes me shudder.
My uncle’s boffing dear, sweet mother.
Would I, could I take my life?
Could I, should I, end this strife?
Should I jump out of a plane?
Or throw myself before a train?
Should I from a cliff just leap?
Could I put myself to sleep?
Shoot myself, or take some poison?
Maybe try self immolation?
To shudder off this mortal coil,
I could stab myself with a fencing foil.
Slash my wrists while in the bath?
Would it end my angst and wrath?
To sleep, to dream, now there’s the rub.
I could drop a toaster in my tub.
Would all be glad, if I were dead?
Could I perhaps kill them instead?
This line of thought takes consideration –
For I’m the king of procrastination.

Twisted Greeting Cards

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by Alan Meiss

I must express my gratitude
for such a lovely gift.
Your thoughtfulness and taste is matched
only by your thrift.
It’s clear that you spared all expense,
if you catch my drift.
Remove the anti-theft device
when you again shoplift.

We’re sorry you now mourn the loss
of your beloved cat.
For if we had only braked in time,
it wouldn’t be so flat.

It’s Christmas time, and once again,
the family’s gathered ’round.
Uncles, aunts, and cousins come
to raise a joyful sound.
All that is, except for you,
whom we can only send this mail.
But we’ll save your gifts for fifty years
till you get out of jail.

The frost is on the meadow,
the dew upon the grass.
Here’s your stinking birthday card,
now shove it up your *ahem*.

I’ve tender thoughts and memories
of the special time we shared.
I’d never been so close to you,
for it was more than souls we bared.
But I’ve since come to have regrets
and wonder if we erred,
For now the sores have failed to heal,
and I’m getting really scared.

This Christmas time I give to you
a book that isn’t mine.
So give it back before it’s due
or I’ll have to pay a fine.

Golden fields of daffodils,
sparkling mountain streams,
Crisp clean air and cotton clouds,
vistas from our dreams.
But all throughout our lovely trip,
to thoughts of you we’ve clung,
Because you’ll never see these things
in your iron lung.

The Restroom Door Said Gentlemen

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(Tune: “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen”)

The restroom door said “Gentleman”
And so I walked inside,
I took two steps and realized
I’d been taken for a ride,
I heard high voices, turned
and found the place was occupied,
By two nuns, three old ladies and a nurse,
What could be worse
Than two old nuns, three old ladies and a nurse…

The restroom door said “gentlemen”
It must have been a gag,
As soon as I walked in there
I saw an old hag,
She sprayed me with a can of mace
And slapped me with her bag,
I could tell this just wouldn’t be my day,
What can I say?
This just wasn’t turning out to be my day…

The restroom door said “gentlemen”
And I would like to find,
That crummy little creep
Who had the nerve to switch the sign,
‘Cause I have two black eyes
And one big bruise on my behind,
So I can’t sit with comfort and joy
Boy, oh boy,
No, I’ll never sit with comfort and joy.

The End of the Raven

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By Edgar Allen Poe’s Cat

On a night quite unenchanting
When the rain was downward slanting
I awakened to the ranting
Of the man I catch mice for.
Tipsy and a bit unshaven
Poe was talking to a Raven
Perched above the chamber door.
“Raven’s very tasty,” thought I, as I tiptoed o’er the floor,
“There is nothing I like more.”

Soft upon the rug I treaded,
Calm and carefully I headed
Towards his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore.
While the Bard and birdie chattered
I made sure that nothing clattered,
Creaked or snapped, or fell, or shattered
As I crossed the corridor,
For his house is crammed with trinkets, curious and weird decor,
Bric-a-brac and junk galore.

Still the Raven never fluttered,
Standing stock still as he uttered
In a voice that shrieked and sputtered
His two cents worth: “Nevermore.”
While this dirge the birdbrain kept up
Oh, so silently I crept up
Then I crouched and quickly leapt up,
Pouncing on the feathered bore.
Soon he was a heap of plumage, plus a little blood and gore —
Only this and nothing more.

“Ah!” my pickled poet cried out,
“Pussycat, it’s time I dried out!
Never sat I in my hideout
Talking to a bird before!
How I’ve wallowed in self-pity
While my gallant, noble kitty
Put an end to that damned ditty!”
Then I heard him start to snore.
Back atop the door I clambered, eyed that statue I abhor,
Jumped — and smashed it on the floor.

The Email Wonderland

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Another “ping”,
Are you listenin’?
The puter screen,
Is a glistenin’.
With icons so bright,
They light up the night,
Welcome to the e-mail wonderland!

Gone away,
Are the hall talks.
Here to stay,
Is the IN-BOX.
Flagged “urgent, please read!”,
And “answer with speed!”.
Welcome to the e-mail wonderland!

In the morning e-mails start to add up.
No lunch today cause messages abound.
Just click away and hope the server stays up.
You can’t do your job if it goes down.

10 P.M.,
You’re not tired.
The caffeine,
Has got you wired.
The day’s not complete,
Till the last delete,
Welcome to the e-mail wonderland!

In the morning e-mails start to add up,
No lunch today cause messages abound.
Just click away and hope the server stays up.
You can’t do your job if it goes down.

Until you,
Are retired,
The same old grind,
It is required.
You’ll face unafraid,
That message parade.
Welcome to the e-mail wonderland

Dust If You Must

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Dust if you must.
But wouldn’t it be better
to paint a picture, or write a letter,
bake a cake, or plant a seed.
Ponder the difference between want and need.

Dust if you must.
But there is not much time,
with rivers to swim and mountains to climb!
Music to hear, and books to read,
friends to cherish and life to lead.

Dust if you must.
But the world’s out there
with the sun in your eyes, the wind in your hair,
a flutter of snow, a shower of rain.
This day will not come round again.

Dust if you must.
But bear in mind,
old age will come and it’s not kind.
And when you go, and go you must,
you, yourself, will make more dust.

Remember, a house becomes a home when you can
write “I love you” on the furniture.

Deteriorata

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by Tony Hendra for the National Lampoon

(You are a fluke of the universe.
You have no right to be here.
Deteriorata, Deteriorata)

Go placidly amidst the noise and waste,
And remember what comfort there may be in owning a piece thereof.
Avoid quiet and passive persons, unless you are in need of sleep.
Rotate your tires.
Speak glowingly of those greater than yourself;
And heed well their advice, even though they be turkeys.
Know what to kiss – and when.
Consider that two wrongs never make a right,
But that three do.
Wherever possible, put people on hold.
Be comforted, that in the face of all irridity and disillusionment,
And despite the changing fortunes of time,
There is always a big future in computer maintenance.

(You are a fluke of the universe.
You have no right to be here.
Whether you can hear it or not,
The universe is laughing behind your back.)

Remember the Pueblo.
Strive at all times to bend, fold, spindle, and mutilate.
Know yourself.
If you need help, call the FBI.
Exercise caution in your daily affairs,
Especially with those persons closest to you.
That lemon on your left, for instance.
Be assured that a walk through the seas of most souls
Would scarcely get your feet wet.
Fall not in love therefore, it will stick to your face.
Gracefully surrender the things of youth: the birds, clean air, tuna, Taiwan –
And let not the sands of time get in your lunch.
Hire people with hooks.
For a good time, call 606-4311, ask for Ken.
Take heart in the deepening gloom
That your dog is finally getting enough cheese.
And reflect that whatever misfortune may be your lot,
It could only be worse in Milwaukee.

(You are a fluke of the universe.
You have no right to be here.
Whether you can hear it or not,
The universe is laughing behind your back.)

Therefore, make peace with your god,
Whatever you perceive him to be:
Hairy thunderer or cosmic muffin.
With all its hopes, dreams, promises, and urban renewal,
The world continues to deteriorate. GIVE UP!

(You are a fluke of the universe.
You have no right to be here.
Whether you can hear it or not,
The universe is laughing behind your back.)