A Little Collection of Light Verse

by Scott Emmons
illustrated by Chris Harding





In the land of Zeus and Heracles
I stuffed my face with feta cheese.
I snacked on hot souvlaki
near the rocky
Attic shore.
I sipped a sweet retsina
by the temple of Athena,
reading tales of tragic heroes,
eating gyros
by the score.

In a picturesque taverna
at the site of ancient Lerna
the traditional selection
was perfection
in cuisine.
There I slaked my lust for learning
and my culinary yearning.
I imbibed eternal beauty
as a foodie

Middle Age Hangover

My eyeballs are watery, puffy, and red.
I can't move a muscle to get out of bed.
A jackhammer's pounding inside of my head,
So I can't even hear myself think.
My temperature feels like a thousand and three.
"Dear God, let me die!" is my passionate plea.
And the hell of it is, all I had was some tea.
How I miss being able to drink!

Coffeehouse Blues

My Sunday morning coffee shop
Is not the greatest place to stop.
They make their lattes way too white.
Their lame espresso has no bite.
Although I'm seldom one to grouse,
Their Kenyan's weak as Maxwell House!
No teeth could pierce their stale biscotti.
The bathroom's always slightly grotty.
The waitress has a face like Lurch.
I'd almost rather go to church!

O Buddha, Where Art Thou?

I want to be a Buddha
With a calm and beaming smile.
I'd radiate transcendence
In my placid Buddha style.
I'd fear no ills, I'd dread no bills.
I'd have no need for kicks and thrills.
When others turned to happy pills,
I'd meditate awhile.

I wouldn't suffer pangs of lust
Or jealousy or wrath.
I'd need no SUV,
Because I'd walk the Eightfold Path.
My cravings all would be undone.
I'd contemplate the moon and sun,
And understand that they were One,
For that is Buddhist math.

I'd have no life ambitions,
Being quite content to be.
I'd need no ego-stroking,
For there wouldn't be a me.
I'd never rush to make a buck
Or toot my horn or curse my luck.
I'm pretty sure it wouldn't suck
To be attachment-free.

T.G.I. Bite Me!

I often get a waiter
By the name of Todd or Guy.
A chatty, chipper fellow
With suspenders and a tie.
He asks what he can "do me for."
He calls me "chief" or "bud."
He recommends a "brewski"
Or a steaming cup of "mud."
And once he's brought my coffee
And my special of the day,
He asks at least a dozen times,
"Is everything okay?"
I take his attitude in stride,
Betraying no offense.
I thank him kindly, pay the check,
And leave him twenty cents.

A Rite of Passage

At the tender age of six (or maybe seven),
When I first picked up a comic magazine,
I thought that I had died and gone to heaven,
For I found a kind of ad I'd never seen.
The page was filled with tiny illustrations
Showing products clearly made for evil ends,
And every one was hyped by exclamations
Like "Lotsa laffs!" "A scream!" and "Fool your friends!"
There were gags like pepper gum and squirting flowers,
There were stink bombs, clacking teeth, and skin head wigs.
The fun was guaranteed to last for hours
When you'd slip someone the awful tasting "cigs."
There was disappearing ink for secret writing
And a gadget that would help you throw your voice.
But the X-Ray Specs were even more exciting,
And they soon became my novelty of choice.

I dreamed of peering into neighbors' houses
And I knew that once I got the slightest chance,
I'd be slyly sneaking peeks through skirts and blouses
To feast my eyes on London and on France.
I placed the order, as I still remember,
On a balmy weekend early in July.
And when the package came in late September,
I was one extremely hyper little guy!
I brought the glasses right up to my peepers.
I rested them with care upon my nose.
I cried out, "Holy mackerel!" and "Jeepers!"
For I didn't have the words to say, "This blows!"
In the dark and fuzzy blur that was my body,
I couldn't see a trace of bones or guts.
I then checked out the neighbor girl -- a hottie.
She looked like hell, and I looked like a putz!
My face went red with utter indignation.
I couldn't stand the thought that I'd been had.
But soon I saw it all as education,
And now the whole thing makes me rather glad.
For I learned to see through all that's fake and phony.
I disbelieve the bulk of what I've read.
I don't buy New Age medical baloney
Or Chinese herbs to make me good in bed.
Scientology's the butt of my derision,
And I know that crystal healing is a myth.
In short, I have a kind of x-ray vision,
And I owe it to the folks at Johnson Smith!

To Each his Own

I love the symphony and such,
But never cared for opera much.
I've never seen La Traviata,
Never really felt I oughtta.
I haven't ever seen Pagliacci,
Though I hear the tunes are cacci.
Cavalleria Rusticana?
Never saw it, still don't wanna.
Never took in La Bohème.
Guess I just don't give a dème.

Web Addict

I'm not a slave to alcohol.
I don't do any weed at all.
I'm far too sane to snort cocaine.
I just say no to crack.
I never touch a cigarette,
But get me near the Internet,
And I'm a raving junky
With a monkey on my back!

I've gotta get my daily shot
of Memepool, Fark, and Hot or Not.
I need 'em Something Awful
'Cause I've got a raging Jones.
Although I'm not the tabloid sort,
I can't resist the Drudge Report.
I've gotta see The Onion
And its hundred thousand clones!

On Saturdays I read Salon.
I buy my books from Amazon.
I'm known in eBay circles
as TheSurfinator6.
I can't describe the cyber-rush
I get from cruising RetroCrush.
I'm always waiting meekly
for my weekly Strong Bad fix.

I Google every friend I've got.
They've christened me Sir Browse-A-Lot.
I'm always ripped on Java script
Or all strung out on Flash.
It's one of my consuming kinks.
I live my life in hyperlinks.
And if the Net should disappear,
I fear my brain would crash!

A Diet to Die For

I'm biting the bullet and giving up meat,
Although the mere thought makes me groan.
For a hamburger patty is fatally fatty
And chicken is bad to the bone.
I'm swearing off butter and sweets of all kinds.
I've taken a serious vow.
And I'm cutting out fruits, for today's greatest minds
Say carbs are the enemy now!
I'm giving up bread, as the experts advise,
And everything else I may crave.
No heart attack's gonna take me by surprise.
I'll starve myself into the grave!

Alpha Male

Had I been born an alpha male
(For sadly I was not),
I'd down my bourbon by the pail,
My chili by the pot.
I'd ride a honkin' Harley bike.
I'd tell my boss to take a hike.
They'd call me Cowboy, Mad Dog, Spike,
Or anything but Scott.

I'd be a shameless bimbo hound.
I'd practice every scam.
I'd hit on every Jane around,
Each Nancy, Kim and Pam.
Bodacious babes would lust for me.
I'd be one hunky S.O.B.
I'd break a heart or two or three
And wouldn't give a damn.

My self-esteem would never slump.
I'd swagger, strut, and smirk.
I'd be a blend of Donald Trump,
King Kong, and Captain Kirk.
In every conflict I'd prevail.
I'd make those beta fellows quail.
Yes, if I were an alpha male,
Good God, I'd be a jerk!

Music to my Pointy Ears

Some find Pavarotti a treat for the ears,
While others prefer Aguilera or Spears.
But the music that fills me with exquisite joy
Is the lyrical crooning of Leonard Nimoy.

Leonard Nimoy! Leonard Nimoy!
That singing sensation called Leonard Nimoy!

He's a little bit country, a little bit rock,
With a sensitive tone that says, "I am not Spock!"
From New York to L.A. to Moline, Illinois,
No rival can touch Mr. Leonard Nimoy!

Leonard Nimoy! Leonard Nimoy!
That versatile vocalist Leonard Nimoy!

His C often ranges from B-flat to E,
But who needs a singer who's always on key?
That sense of suspense is the thing I enjoy.
Each song's an adventure with Leonard Nimoy!

Leonard Nimoy! Leonard Nimoy!
That wild, unpredictable Leonard Nimoy!

There are records by Shatner (though I'm not a fan).
There may even be tracks by James "Scotty" Doohan
And that crusty old dude who played Doctor McCoy.
But they can't hold a candle to Leonard Nimoy.

Leonard Nimoy! Leonard Nimoy!
That star among superstars, Leonard Nimoy!
Though he hasn't recorded since I was a boy,
I'm forever devoted to Leonard Nimoy!

News Weakly

The Pope has been arrested for possessing crack cocaine.
The White House uses voodoo to control Saddam Hussein.
The Falun Gong's departed for an interstellar cruise.
I know because I read it in the Weekly World News.

The Bat Boy's gone to college, where he's got a four-point-0.
The cure for colon cancer is a pound of cookie dough.
If you want the latest info and some fresh, exciting views,
You should get yourself a copy of the Weekly World News.

You can keep your Wall Street Journal and your USA Today.
They're way too big and bulky, and they're boring anyway.
The Times is dry and stuffy, so the paper I peruse
Is a journalistic treasure called the Weekly World News!

Extra-Close Encounter

It was out at the junction of Highway Eleven
And County Road Six, where the tumbleweeds blow,
As I paced on the shoulder in fits of frustration,
My '82 Civic in need of a tow.
The roads were deserted, and grimly I girded
My spirits to hike to a hamlet nearby,
When an extraterrestrial vessel emerged
From the depths of the darkening sky.

It was roughly the size of Columbus, Ohio.
It made an unearthly, ethereal sound,
Much like a creation of Spielberg or Lucas
Or maybe some other not quite so renowned.
As I stood there and shuddered in utter amazement,
Confusion, and no little measure of fright,
I was suddenly seized by a beam from above,
And I rode a conveyor of light.

The beam drew me into a dim little chamber.
A couple of creatures awaited me there,
Lilliputian in size, with gargantuan eyes
And a highly conspicuous absence of hair.
While one of them brandished a laser-like weapon,
The other approached in a manner quite rude
And deftly bereft me of all my apparel,
To render me helpless and nude.

They fastened me into a kind of recliner.
My hands were both shackled, as well as my feet.
The whir of a motor assaulted my ears
As a snake-like contraption emerged from the seat.
Its body was leathery, long, and elastic.
Its head was a sort of mechanical eye
That tended to stare with a menacing air,
Or perhaps it was just saying hi.

It took not a moment to whisper sweet nothings.
I wasn't "finessed," if you know what I mean.
And all I could do was surrender to Fate
And a singular melding of man and machine.
It slithered through regions I won't even mention.
I let out a groan and a panicky shout.
Suffice it to say it fulfilled its intention
Of probing me inside and out.

And when it was over, my captors released me.
Returned me, in fact, as I think was their plan,
To that desolate junction of Highway Eleven
And County Road Six, where my story began.
Since then I have traveled from Yonkers to Yemen.
I've wandered the continents, circled the globe.
But sadly I'm ruined for all earthly women.
I dream of that alien probe!

Good Muse, Bad Muse

Some poets pen Horatian odes,
While others write in epic modes.
Some love the rousing roundelay
(Though most consider it passé).
Some like the tightly-packed haiku,
And villanelles still please a few.
Some think the sonnet form sublime.
But me, I just want shit to rhyme.

Copyright Notice:
All written content on this site ©2002-2003 Scott W. Emmons