A Little Collection of Light Verse
by Scott Emmons
illustrated by Chris Harding
Life and Other
Lame New World
The books predicted hovercrafts
And weekends on the moon.
But here it is 2003,
And yet I doubt I'm going to see
A jet pack very soon.
No robot butler's bringing me
My sherry and cigar.
I want to know who dropped the ball.
The Internet is cool and all,
But where's my flying car?
Harry was a baker,
The finest in the town.
His muffins, scones, and crescent rolls
Had won him great renown.
But then he fell on harder times.
It came as quite a shock.
The fates were ruthlessly unkind
The day that he awoke to find
He suffered baker's block.
He couldn't bake a simple loaf.
The spark just wasn't there.
He'd come to work at four a.m.,
Then only sit and stare.
And soon his shop was boarded up,
His baking pans in hock.
An artist's heart must freeze with fear
To think such skill could disappear,
That such a promising career
Could fall to baker's block!
Lycon was a soldier
Renowned for daring deeds.
He fought for Greece's glory
In the wars against the Medes.
But Lycon fell from honor,
As the ancient annals say.
He was booted from the army
When they learned he wasn't gay.
A mighty epicure, he stands
A hundred feet or more:
The enigmatic Happy Chef
On Highway 64.
His face is bright and jovial.
He wears a friendly grin.
But who can fail to wonder
Just what angst may lurk within?
Does he pine for a companion?
Does ennui oppress his mind?
Perhaps those painted eyes perceive
The plight of humankind.
But carpe diem is his creed.
Escape from cares is sweet.
And so, with steady, smiling gaze,
He beckons, "Come and eat!"
Titan of Turtles
To the lovers of monsters, Godzilla is king.
The terror is tripled when Ghidra takes wing.
Some marvel at Mothra, some root for Rodan.
But me, I'm a passionate Gamera fan!
He's a jet-propelled turtle with nuclear breath.
He'll fight any villain and fight to the death!
His strength is astounding, and so is his size.
If you catch the right movie, he spins as he flies!
He's a friend of all children, but no powder puff.
There's no doubt about it, that turtle is tough!
When Gyaos attacked him and left him for dead,
When Viras impaled him on spikes from his head,
When Barugon iced him with deep-freezing gas,
It just made him eager to kick kaiju ass!
So Barugon ended up drowned in the drink,
And Gyaos got fried in Mount Fuji, I think.
I cheered when the hero gave Zigra a whack,
Then banged out a tune on the dead sucker's back!
Now that kind of thing sets a monster apart!
It shows he's got attitude, humor, and heart.
Okay, so Godzilla's gigantic and strong,
But Gamera's got his own signature song!
"Gamera! Gamera! Marvelous turtle!
You soar like a rocket! You whoosh as you hurtle
To Mercury, Saturn, the moon and the sun..."
(The Japanese Lyrics are even more fun!)
So keep your big lizards, your dragons as well,
And give me a kaiju encased in a shell.
Those Toho-type creatures are wussies and fools.
If you're looking for action, then Gamera RULES!!!
Bartleby Yost was a mischievous ghost
With long and luxuriant hair.
He thought it great fun to appear on a bun
Or a pancake or overripe pear.
With his thin silhouette he'd adorn a baguette
Or the casings of various cheeses.
And he'd laugh till he'd choke at his side-splitting joke,
For everyone thought he was Jesus.
The Horror of Hair
Some guys are born ugly, some others are slow.
Some suffer from acne or chronic B.O.
But the guy who's unlucky beyond all compare
Is the pitiful sap with a full head of hair!
A full head of hair is a guy's greatest curse.
He wears it in ringlets, a mullet, or worse.
He spikes it with gel or a fragrant pomade,
And still the poor bastard can't get himself laid!
No, life isn't pleasant and life isn't fair
For the ill-fated guy with a full head of hair!
He forks over twenty or thirty a pop
To have a professional hack at his mop.
The stylist, of course, has opinions to spare
On taxes, the Bulls, North Korea, and Cher.
And if the poor sucker should put on a hat,
His hair goes in seconds from fluffy to flat.
And think of the loser who strays far from home
And suddenly finds he's forgotten his comb!
It's a life full of hassles and worry and care,
The kind of a life that no sane man could bear.
And every so often I offer a prayer:
Thank God I'm not cursed with a full head of hair!
Sweat of geezer, piss of tot,
Funky toe jam, slimy snot,
Greasy epidermal oil,
Pus from someone's oozing boil,
Pimple juice and baby drool...
Thank God they chlorinate the pool!
Alas for young Professor Black!
His sudden death was such a shame.
He published like a maniac,
And yet he perished all the same.
Millie languished on her bed.
"There's little hope," the doctor said.
"I fear she won't last one night more."
Alas, the child was barely four.
That night, before she went to sleep,
The sickly tot began to weep,
And raising up her hollow eyes,
She spoke in hoarse, consumptive sighs.
"Dear Lord, it's Millie. If you're there,
Please hear my simple little prayer.
I've never heard the ocean roar
Or watched a mighty eagle soar
Or raised a flower from a seed.
I've never even learned to read.
I had so much in front of me.
My life's just started, can't you see?
By now her voice was thin and weak.
She struggled bravely just to speak.
"Please save me, Lord," poor Millie cried.
The Lord said, "No." And Millie died.
A Nice, Clean Poem
Here's a wholesome little verse
Of charm and eloquence.
It has but one cocksucking word
That's apt to cause offense.
A Tale of the Fifties
Pete wasn't Beat.
Not what you'd call a real gone cat,
He couldn't howl his pain and anger
With that hipster razzmatazz.
He was square and neat.
He couldn't have said where it was at.
He liked to sing along with Mitch,
But didn't have the chops for jazz.
Pete wasn't cool.
He never acquired the taste for tea.
He never made the scene with benzedrine
Or opium or smack.
And as a rule,
He couldn't be loose and fancy-free.
He'd never have lasted half a week
Out on the road with Kerouac.
Pete wasn't hip.
He didn't dig the avant-garde.
He liked the jokes of Berle and Benny.
Lenny Bruce was second-rate.
He didn't flip
For every non-conformist bard.
He never understood why Ginsberg, Holmes,
And Burroughs were so great.
And I can relate.
Five Tiny Gripes
August 11, 2003
Cat hair, cat hair everywhere!
On the bed and on the chair,
In the closet, on my clothes,
All too often up my nose!
Cat hair, cat hair everywhere!
So annoying, so unfair!
The way he sheds, the cat should be
At least as nearly bald as me!
I'm thinking the guy in the car next to mine
Should turn up his music a tad.
It may be too low for some people to hear
In parts of New Zealand and Chad.
The music starts. The people grin.
Behold the merry mood they're in!
They flap their arms, they strut and prance.
God, I hate the Chicken Dance!
They've invented a new kind of plastic
That's super-resilient and tough,
While remaining just slightly elastic.
It's truly phenomenal stuff.
It'll hold up in any conditions.
It can take on a bullet with ease.
And I harbor some sneaky suspicions
That they use it to shrink-wrap CDs!
The rhythmic ringing makes me tense.
It mocks me with its taunting tone,
Depriving me of common sense.
Now where'd I leave that cordless phone???
All written content on this site ©2002-2003 Scott W. Emmons