Red Light, Green Light (Unpub)

Because I would not stop for Death,

He kindly stopp'd for me.

Because I'd lagniappe not for Death.

He burn'd my Christmas tree.

'Cuz I'd not traitors top for Death,

He vow'd to cap my knee.

Because I'd not wet mop for Death,

He soak'd our floors in pee.

Because I'd not black op for Death,

He launch'd a third degree.

Because I would not prop for Death,

His scenes lack potpourri.

Because I'd not pour schnapps for Death,

He'd pour no Pimm's for me.

'Cuz I'd corrupt not cops for Death,

He did himself, did he.

'Cuz I'd no razors strop for Death,

He let grow his goatee.

'Cuz I'd not agitprop for Death,

now Trotskyites run free.

'Cuz I'd not secrets swap for Death,

roam pinkos, too -- carefree.

'Cuz I'd not "take a nop" for Death,

He deem'd my wisecracks "twee."

(work in progress)

 

Aramaic quop for Death 

noggins lop for Death 

Bunny Hop for Death 

rider's crop for Death

bebop for Death

clip-clop for Death

flip-flop for Death

lemon drop for Death,

lollipop for Death.

window shop for Death.

sop for Death,

play the fop for Death.

slop for Death.

kill -- full stop -- for Death,

mutton chop for Death.

malaprop for Death.

pot a scaup for Death...

all 'cuz I'd not stop for Death.

A Curry T'd Up is a Curry T'd Off (Unpub)

     On the 21^st of October, 2017, during a losing effort
against the NBA’s Memphis Grizzlies, the Golden State 

Warriors' Steph Curry gets ejected from the game after 

his overreaction to being t'd up -- i.e., called by the ref

for a technical foul.  

 
‘Tis sad how hoops lives not up to its promise.
Its bones stand tall; its skin, withal, shows squamous --
as notes below the Welshman Dylan Thomas:
 
“The force that through the green fuse drives the flower…”:
Was not such pressure loosen’d to empower
the ref who of Steph urged an early shower…?
 
Scott Wall, said ref, ain’t black, nor Steph’s not white.
Still, notwithstanding same, was Curry right
to “not go gentle into that good night”…?
 
Who’s quick to say, “That’s round ball nowadays”
would skirt these issues which the NBA’s
official rules – nor Dalton’s law! – won’t raise.

My Home Town (Unpub)

My home town,
Levelplayingfield, Maine,
plays by Isaacnewtonian rules
(“Ev’ry act prompts its equal
and opposite sequel”) --
in libraries, courtrooms
and schools.
 
We’ve a rest’rant
which runs in the black
‘cuz the sous-chef likes
cooking the books.
Still, what’s up ends up down –
Lev’field’s that kind of town.
Now our cops are seen
booking the cooks.
 
We’ve a truck farmer,
potting his plants.
There’s no flora
this fella ain’t got.
But our drug laws are changing,
and now he – deranging –
spends happy hours
planting his pot.
 
Our asylum keeps men
in white coats
busy padding the cells
of our mad.
Now, in order to amp up
the occupancy,
there’s a sales team
who’s selling the pad.
 
The town’s hearths
are kept spotless by sweeps.
They do windows as well,
and clean floors.
Still, the pittance they’re paid
(no paid leave, I’m afraid)
tends to floor our poor sweeps.
(Zut alors!)
 
Our locale boasts
its fair share of gamblers
who forever are
hedging their bets.
There’s a few who are addicts
who wager their attics,
and lawns,
betting hedges…and pets!
 
We’ve a gym:
boxers punching the bag,
partners sparring,
palookas – the bunch.
Plus, we’ve one ex-contender
who’s been on a bender.
(If him, I’d be
bagging the punch.)
 
At our ballpark,
the pitchers fan batters.
This I’ve watched
(season seats!) from the stands,
where I’ve witness’d, as well
(such a sad tale to tell),
gangs of hooligans
batt’ring the fans.
 
And, of course,
we’ve a local Don Juan.
who would buss
every missy he could.
But, though urged to leave town,
this Lothariol clown
opts to miss ev’ry bus
out the ‘hood.
 
We’ve a pest-control service
as well,
which for spying out rats
works first rate.
We’ve the Lev’field
Security Agency, too:
Good for ratting out spies.
(Spies we hate.)
 
I, to all who’d hold office
in Lev’field:
toss your hat in the ring!
Weigh a run!
Tho’ electees who do,
once elected -- too true --
run away…with town funds.
(Shame…? They’ve none.)
 
We’ve a theater:
I edit scripts,
play some parts,
break a leg with the cast.
And a graveyard, okay…?
‘Cuz departing the play
is an exit we’ll
all make at last.
 
My home town –
Levelplayingfield, Maine.
Under
Isaacnewtonian Law,
ev’ry yin yields its yang,
and, excuse the harangue,
such a backass burg
never you saw!