The Ends Justify The Genes

A nose too long, an imperfect chin,
Seemed a good place to begin,
A snip here, an implant there,
‘Til she made a whole disguise to wear.

And soon the surgery replaced,
Every feature of her face,
But when browsing yearbooks of her alma mater,
She saw a dead ringer for her daughter.


Jury Duty Is For Suckers

I guess I just don’t see the beauty,
Of attending jury duty,
But if in such a way my time must while,
I’ll surely not sit for a trial.

So I’d like to take this chance,
To apologize in advance,
For what tomorrow may occur,
To be construed as a racial slur.

For although no one is deserving,
There’s no way in hell I’m serving.



Like my dear old grandmother
I find it difficult to budge,
From a negative viewpoint
created by a grudge.

But I can’t say my poor husband
didn’t try to warn me,
Knowing I’d soon see the object
of my hostility.

As he advised me to try
to be the bigger person,
When seeing she whose actions
caused me the aversion.

I smiled when I saw her
and tried to rise above,
But when alone with her in the bathroom, well,
who’d’ve thought there’d be so much blood?

Now I sit confined in these 4 walls
trying to seem repentant,
To this woman for whom I still harbor
quite a deep resentment.

For though they say I gave her
a bit more than she deserved,
Sometimes I still wonder
how she could have had the nerve.


Mice and Rats and Rodents, Oh My!

The first time rodents got in our way,
Was in our studio apartment on NY’s Ave A,
When in our closet we heard squeaking,
And on our still wrapped spaghetti they were feasting.

And then we threw up such a fuss,
That through our neighbor’s door we nearly bust,
And made them privy to our drama,
While dressed in fuzzy purple pajamas.

And so the girls came down quite composed,
And of the rodents they disposed,
While we looked on in disbelief,
And awe and shame but mostly relief.

This did all come at a high cost,
As our tough girl reputation was surely lost,
Sisters Grimm, our band name wearing thin,
As for weeks we were known as the Sissies Grimm.


Why Don’t We Do It In The Road?

Oh, to pick a spot so random,images
And go at it with sheer abandon,
May have had teenagers dreaming,
But now takes on a different meaning.

Of prospective bruises and taking a chance,
On literally having ants in your pants,
Discomfort in a head that knocks,
Against various pebbles and rocks.

And for what took less than a quarter hour,
There are still remnants after days of showers,
And I find it all a bit uncanny,
How it found it’s way into every nook and cranny.

But I suppose I’d have to do,
With such bragging rights at 42,
And though Paul McCartney is lovely, he too is old,
And I wonder if he’d still do it in the road.

And So The Caged Bird Sings

His lyrics and his music,
All repeats of the same,
And after so many years,
Even he admits it’s lame.

But still before the cheering fans,
He lifts up his guitar,
And plays the same notes nightly,
That make him want to barf.

The last album was dismal,
The one before was worse,
His fleeting inspiration,
Stands before him like a curse.

The simplistic rhythms,
The melodramatic rhymes,
Of being vexed with the sonic hex,
Of playing Freebird one more time.


The Midway Walk of Shame

I scurry for the exit
in the dawn’s early haze,
After a wrong turn caused an entanglement
through the mirror maze.

Which reflected a disheveled figure,
distorted in the light of morning,
Wearing last night’s skimpy outfit,
and clutching her belongings.

But my direction becomes clear,
when I hear the eerie bells,
And dulcet tones that come from the testing,
of the carousel.

And find myself ejected,
into the breakfast nook,
Where the dwarf mutters hello,
and greets me with a knowing look.

When awkwardly I stand before,
out the door I sneak,
After realizing that here,
I am the one that is the freak.

I see glitter in the gutter,
reflections of the night,
And the carnival tent looks dingy,
in the early morning light.

As I piece together an evening,
that might have got a little crazy,
After emerging from the bedchamber,
of the bearded lady.


The Opportunist

A single man he has no filter,
When it comes to the woman he’s bedding,
And thinks it wise not to reject invitations,
For either funerals or weddings.

A red rose carefully plucked,
From many a floral arrangement,
Can easily serve as an opening line,
To lead to flirtatious engagement.

He says, “Call me if you need anything,
You know where I can be found.”
He puts a comforting arm on a grieving widow’s shoulder,
While the tombstone’s still fresh in the ground.

And bridesmaids who wallow in pity,
Desperate to catch the bouquet,
May want to question the first man they see,
Hasten to come their way.

As he licks his lips lasciviously,
And can’t believe his luck,
Lest you think it the buffet table of French pastries,
Or the succulent Peking duck.

For though he might seem the caring sort,
You might question his motivation,
And be a bit wiser to this womanizer,
When he accepts your invitation.