Preparing an income tax return is like a girl preparing to go to the beach: you take off as much as the law allows. –Evan Esar

Speaking of which, I’ve mustered enough resolve to start on my federal and state tax returns (rather than procrastinate ’til it’s almost too late, as I’ve done for decades), so I’m going to strip some preparation time from this post by re-publishing an old poem. But at least it’s for a good cause — ’cause if I don’t get a move on, that age-old last minute stress could cause an old-age heart attack, which would not be in my best interest.


“Hello, Sam!”
“Good morning, Max!”
“Have you done
your income tax?”
“Taxing though
it be to say,
know I did
it yesterday.”
“Did you take
your deductions?”
“I deduced
for reductions.”
Four reduced?
I laud your feat!”
“I took off
my hands and feet.”
“That’s the way
to keep ahead!”
“Yes, I used
my limbs in stead.”
“Instead of
head? Way to go!
That’s the way
to save some dough!”
“Have you done
your income tax?”
“Goodbye, Sam!”
“Good morning, Max!”

’nuff wisecracks! Jills and Jacks, here is Max on the stacks with the facts about tax, so relax:



Water, water, everywhere, / [And not a] drop to drink.

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So much I could write about, but of nothing can I think.
Oh, fie on my dilemma, scheduled post day on the brink!
Such embarrassment of riches is an albatross ’round my neck….
All this water all about; sound the call: all rimes of “riches” on deck!

An embarrassment of BITCHES: complaining to the max
An embarrassment of DITCHES: the downside of digging, sore backs
An embarrassment of GLITCHES: my computer is prone to upheaval
An embarrassment of HITCHES: my computer is a necessary evil

An embarrassment of ITCHES: too unreachable for scratching
An embarrassment of KITCHES: bad taste beyond patching
An embarrassment of MITCHES: too many friends named Mitchell
An embarrassment of NICHES: easily found places that hide a missile

An embarrassment of PITCHES: throes of what The Donald doth tout
An embarrassment of RICHES: what this post is all about
An embarrassment of STITCHES: what I hope this post’ll leave you in
An embarrassment of WITCHES: wicked ones melt (they’re inhuman)

NOTE: I didn’t want you to think I’m too big for my BRITCHES, so I left them off — the list, that is — WHICH IS cool with me and, I assume, with you.



Life is just a dirty four-letter word: w-o-r-k.  –J. P. McEvoy, writer/comic strip creator

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If you have a job that stinks because your caseload is overwhelming (like maybe social work, child welfare or criminal court), you can probably relate to this:


If I’m any judge, that’s a Judge (and fellow Ohioan) who knows how to do creative “sentencing” — a Cain who is able, as Judge Cain himself might pun. As a poet, I see poetry as a way to express myself creatively, but the above case demonstrates that poetry is also good for getting a load off one’s mind. Take those times I’m on the throne, dumping a commodious b. m. — I’d liken it to killing two turds with one stone, because at times, it may be the only place I find peace and quiet to compose the poems I post….such as this com-post:


Noah did build a mighty ark;
He worked by day and he worked by dark.

From lands afar he gathered pairs
Of kangaroos and polar bears,

Of groundhogs and water buffalo,
And every creature, bound to go

With him o’er deserts, swamps and seas,
Across the Alps and Pyrenees,

Taking those beasties from where they were at,
Straight to his ark for a cruise to Mount Ararat,

Got them on board, two of each species,
Ere long to amass a mess of feces,

And though the elephants brought their trunks,
Two hoses could but horse with a stench like skunks.

Fortunately, as much as decks stinked,
Dinosaurs and mastodons had become extinct.

But how do we know Noah knew their gender?
The pairs multiplied like rabbits by THE ENDer….


Mary Christmas is her name.
Merry Christmas is her game.
So, Merry Christmas, Mary Christmas!
Merry, the way you made your list less
The merry day you lined off your wish list
The last name that you became
When you married Mister Christmas.

And now you’ve heard the gospel of how Christmas, Mister,
Made Maid Mary’s Merry Little Christmas….a tongue twister.



Lord love a duck,
And the flighty flea;
Yet the skink liz., I think is
More grounded than we’ll ever bee.

And Lord love a fly
(Only God knows why) —
While no toucan swat flies, you can….though
It takes deet-o to defeat-o a mosquito.

Which leads one to wonder
What makes parasites tick?
Ticks are such louses,
They damn well make me sick.

Pray tell, when hyenas laugh,
Are they howling at jokes?
When possums play dead,
Are they living a hoax?

Do hummingbirds hum
’cause they don’t know the words?
Why don’t emus fly?
Do they think they’re not birds?

Do deer mice to mere mice
Write “Dear Mouse” letters?
Do billy goats bill,
Willy-nilly, billy goat debtors?

How hip are hippos?
Do garter snakes wear socks?
Are sockeye salmon
From the school of hard knocks?

Do caribou care?
Do antelope elope?
When push comes to shove,
Can two cockatoos cope?

If given an inch,
Will inchworms grow feet?
Are fool pigeons stool pigeons
When they rat on the street?

What makes a dog bark?
Does it think it’s a tree?
And why do owls look wise?
They must think that they’re me.


As you know, July 27 is one of the biggest holidays of the year: it’s TAKE YOUR PANTS FOR A WALK DAY. Now, those of us who take our pants (or panties) for a walk every day may wonder why there’s one special day set aside to celebrate such a normal, mundane activity. The answer, by way of analogy, is that most of us are mothers or fathers every day, but we still have single Mother’s and Father’s Days to honor what we do every day….unless, of course, we can afford to delegate the care of our offspring to a ritzy boarding school in France, or however parents who are wealthy get their darling little monster(s) out of their better-things-to-do lives for extended periods.

Anyway, far be it from me not to take this walk day — and its health benefits — seriously. And yet, it seems to me that the idea of exercising your pants/panties is a red herringbone. Sure, your pants may be getting a tad tight around the middle, but is that your pants’ fault? Let’s face it — if your pants no longer fit, you’re getting fat, and a walk around the block isn’t going to do much for either you or your pants. You need to address the real problem — and luckily for you, I have the solution:


Overweight? Not to worry —
You can lose it in a hurry!
Here is all you knead to know:
Inhibit your intake of dough.

When, of dough, you indulges —
Like your wallet, you get bulges.
Don’t be all that you can be —
Send half of all you make to me!