Dysfunctional Disney

A lovely young girl will not fail,
To get caught up in fairy tales,
But can you even imagine this?
To be the characters’ psychiatrist?
To hang with them each day of the week,
I say the prognosis is bleak.

The Little Mermaid has a poor body image,
And I’m afraid she is a hoarder,
Then over to old Snow White,
And the 7 Personality Disorders.

And just when I thought my day could get no worse,
It really is not good,
To see Eeyore depressed and Pooh binge eating,
Over in the Hundred Acre Wood.

Olaf from Frozen is delusional,
We had to coax him away from the fire,
After trying to convince poor Pinocchio,
About the dangers of being a compulsive liar.

Belle has Stockholm Syndrome,
For Sleeping Beauty it’s Kleine-Levin,
Alice in Wonderland is BPD,
And the Red Queen suffers manic depression.

Will Tinkerbell ever be happy?
For her the future looks dim,
And don’t even get me started on Peter Pan,
Who has a whole syndrome named for him.

And so we reflect on these suffering few,
And label them hero or villain,
All carefully planned yet we can’t understand,
The neuroses of our children.


Think Before You Ink

John has so many tattoos,

He looks just like a biker,

He got one of his wife,

But it really don’t look like her.

Eddie got a tribal tattoo,

To fit in with the scene,

Don’t tell him but I’m pretty sure,

He doesn’t know what it means.

Jason wanted some fresh ink,

He didn’t know what to do,

Now his entire forearm,

Says ‘My First Tattoo’.

Anne got a tattoo of her boyfriend’s name,

A love that was forever,

But her plans got thwarted,

Now they’re no longer together.

When I think of artwork for myself,

I’m clearly at a loss,

Think I’ll wear some jewelry and if I don’t like it,

I can just take it off.



A Fashion Victim’s Circle of Life

A bargain dangles before me and I can’t resist,
Violently plowing the aisles as I search for all things thrift,
Shoeboxes obscure my vision, lethal weapons my bags,
I’ll take Macklemore and Lewis down when I’m poppin’ tags.

But when I get home a dark reality sets in,
As I now lament what seemed a fine idea then,
For these seven inch platform heels look totally great,
Not so much teetering into work or for a play date.

And these baggy genie pants that seemed the height of glamour,
May work a bit better on Barbara Eden or MC Hammer,
And consulting my wardrobe for a shirt to match these jeans,
Might be easier if they weren’t swirled with neon pink and green.

And now a scary prospect as my closet grows,
Into a no man’s land of unwanted clothes,
With bars that sag a door that bulges a site of peeling plaster,
Which vies with the worst tornadoes and hurricanes, an unnatural disaster.

And in fact, it would come as no great surprise,
If you told me it has been the taker of many great men’s lives,
As family members await their fate the day that they will learn,
If those who dared to enter my wardrobe may ever return.

And so it comes the day when I must clean out my closet,
Perhaps resulting in a trip to Goodwill with a massive deposit,
But sorting out good from the bad I realize all the while,
That what’s determined as throwaways results in a very tiny pile.

All the fashion catastrophes, the things that have no match,
Become valuable findings to which I’m emotionally attached,
For a winner never quits and so back into a drawer,
You go with all those other items that I never even wore.




Purgatory Of Verse

They litter my mind like so many proverbial
balled up scraps of paper,

Words that I peruse again and again,
whether to discard or to savor,

I can send them to heaven’s gate
of sublime publication,

Or discard them to the trash, sentenced
to hellish damnation,

And though one may be better,
perhaps neither is worse,

Than to be fated to sit endlessly
in the purgatory of verse.




It’s Alarming How Charming It Is When You’re A Farming

By the bottle he lived,
By the bottle he died,
A sad state of affairs,
When he decided to take that ride.

Doing some drunken gardening,
On a lawn mower I’m told,
When he decided to cut some grass,
At the house across the road.

The policeman saw him,
And he then thunk,
That’s old Danny,
He must be drunk!

And that’s why my father in law,
Is the only man I know,
Who got a DUI,
When all he wanted was to mow.



A family of boys,
Were all that filled his world,
And so he hoped with all his heart,
He’d someday get his girl.

He died when she was in my womb,
And so it would be his fate,
To finally get his girl,
Although it was too late.

And in cleaning out his things,
They stopped amidst their labor,
To see he had written her date of birth,
Upon a piece of paper.


The Exercise Lady Made Me Do It!

Oh my dear Leslie Sansone,
You are my exercise woman,
Who attacks junk in the trunk with a spunk,
Nothing short of superhuman.

But when I put your video in today,
Though it looks just like it ought,
When I go to play it something tells me,
It may not be the one I bought.

Leslie drags on to the screen,
And her usual mantra of “Nothing to it!”
Turns into a horrifying lament,
Of “Ladies, I just can’t do it!”

Her hair lies in a rat’s nest,
Askew atop her head,
And it appears dear Leslie,
Has just crawled right out of bed.

After spending most of the night,
Battling smoothies in a blender,
And her band of fit aerobicized youths,
Look like they just came from an all night bender.

And Leslie says “Today we march to the drum,
Of a slightly different tune,
The only kind of lifting we’ll be doing,
Involves a mouth and spoon.”

And horrified, I followed her,
As she put food into her lips,
And even when she dunked her head into,
An entire bag of chips.

And though with this new routine,
I had my suspicions,
With forcefulness she coaxed me,
To do multiple repetitions.

And while this scenario,
Seems perhaps like a bad dream,
It’s all true and I’m telling you,
That’s why there’s no more mint ice cream.


My Abusive Muse

Oh where has that naughty girl gone?
Has she once more gone astray?
She hides in the oddest of places,
And she’s sometimes gone for days.

And who knows where she goes to,
And who knows where she’s been,
The men she’s used or substances abused,
It’s quite the ugly scene.

And when I find her she will fill my head,
With thoughts inappropriate,
And so you see it’s her not me,
Who writes this filthy smut.

Sometimes I try to punish her,
And call her a filthy whore,
But she wriggles her voluptuous bottom at me,
Giggles and cries “More!”

I try to coax her with love and nature,
But she just says it makes her ill,
And embarrasses me for even thinking it,
As my fingers type at her will.

From the satire of Shel Silverstein,
To the wit of Dorothy Parker,
But so morose she scorns my prose,
And urges me “Darker, darker.”




Literature of The Literal

If it’s literally raining cats and dogs,

If it’s literally all Greek to me,

If you literally eat, sleep and breathe your art,

If you’re literally barking up the wrong tree,

You may want to think about your use of the word,

And in a light more serious,

Lest the use of these idioms,

Render us all idiots.


Inspired By: ‘On The Importance Of Not Being Literal’ by Standing Ovation, Seated