There are twelve buttons on my remote.
The first makes poems that I pretend that I wrote.
The second button specializes in ironing my shirts.
The third only works in Turkish — sometimes Mongolian — yurts.
The fourth button I haven’t yet used,
the previous owner did and he ended up bruised.
The fifth button doesn’t really do much,
it just turns on the TV, tells the weather, the time, and such.
The sixth button is the best at saying “Hi!”
But number seven is having a hard time saying “goodbye.”
The eighth button is my favorite of all,
it shakes up strawberry milkshakes 96 inches tall.
Number nine adds the whip cream, the nuts, and a cherry.
Then number ten scolds you for indulging in dairy.
Button eleven — I confess — was a big mistake
It compliments you — it’s true — but it always sounds fake.
Finally, number twelve, the farthest on the right,
will kiss you, then hug you, then turn out the light.
Too quiet, the house
when nobody’s there.
Too quiet, the room
empty sofas, empty chairs.
Too quiet, the mind
wading through endless day.
Too quiet, the heart
when everyone’s away.
Jimbo had been rooting for more than an hour,
his snoot in the muck, his expression dour
’til his friend Dexter shouted with all of his power,
“Find just one truffle for a gourmet to devour!”
“But Dexter,” said Jimbo, “I’m a delicate flower!”
Then Dexter’s mood again turned sour
and he dipped his snoot in the muck with a glower
and rooted for half of a fraction of an hour
and found a truffle for a gourmet to devour.
“Alright, Jimbo,” said Dexter, “now you can shower.”
High atop Mount Tuscalooz
There lives a man (we’ll call him Zooz)
Who wears a robe (always chartreuse)
Who left his socks at home (next to his big brown shoes)
And mutters gibberish (like ibbledee-skribbledee-quibbledee-gooz)
But every once in a while (quite arbitrarily)
He ponders the universe (it happens rarely)
And loudly declares (while gesticulating extraordinarily)
That “THE SECRET TO HAPPINESS IS JUST LIVING MERRILY!”
But I don’t believe him
Well, maybe I do (but just barely)
Tags: defiance, old person
(thanks to Cindy Diamond for the original image)
The scariest thing
That I’ll ever see
Is a black golden-doodle
That they call Zoe. Read the rest of this entry »
Tags: dogs
There was a house in Downers Grove
With a gas, an electric, and a wood-burning stove
That sat high on a bluff overlooking a cove
And buried in the back was an immense treasure trove
Filled with silver and gold and something I’m told Egyptians wove
So yesterday I got in the car and drove and drove
Out to the hight bluff overlooking the cove
I found the gas, the electric, and the wood-burning stove,
And a hole in the Earth that once held an immense treasure trove,
And that’s all that was left of the house in Downers Grove.
© 2010 Jonathan Hauer and mcgarragal.com.
Mr. McGarragal has instructed his attorneys that particularly popular poems should be adapted for sales applications. These applications can now be found in McGarragal’s Thingatorium, starting with a lovely array of children’s attire featuring the drawing from the “Miss Behaving” post.
Tags: attorney speak
It was November of 2002
when they named me Miss Behaving
Tags: defiance
A perplexed penguin wanted to know
What there was to see beyond his ice floe
How much else did the world have to show
Beyond where his father had not allowed him to go?
Tags: lovey dovey, old person, penguins
Tags: so sad
Things You Say