PRIME RHYME, NO FIB (AND THAT’S THE RIB)

How about something I’ve not done for some time:
Post a post so sublime, it don’t do nothing but rhyme.
If I chose prose that’s verbose — longer than a rose is not a nose —
What woes ‘twould expose, such that who knows how big it grows?

Thus I propose, pun in hand, to avoid overflows
And sink to new lows, to the confusion of my foes.
So, friends, meat my poems that may stop on a dime;
Just remember this tickler: not all ribs are prime.

I WILL ONLY STOOP SO LOW

I don’t do windows;
I don’t do lawns —
But when I doo-doo,
I do do johns.

AGE BE FOR BEAUTY

Bald is beautiful —
Or, so they say —
But my head is only
Bald half-way.

Thus, I look forward,
The more I age,
To looking better
At every stage.

POST MORT ‘EM

The world, it go to pot;
Life literate is shot.
O, woe is my bon mot….
Bon mort, and thanks a lot!