A Little Collection of Light Verse
by Scott Emmons
illustrated by Chris Harding
The Irrepressible Mr. Keating
A callous mortician named Keating
Caused a stir at his Rotary meeting.
He would freely impart
All the tricks of his art,
And always while others were eating.
Atticus Thorpe is an entrepreneur
With a product that's wholly unique.
A prolific inventor of phrases and words,
He peddles a thousand a week!
His terms have a snappy, professional ring,
And they're easy to use,
for they don't mean a thing!
He taught us to say that we're "on the same page"
Or wearing our "marketing hat."
"Pushing the envelope" won him renown.
(He made half a million on that!)
He's knocked off his share of executive socks
With thinking that's totally
He's "raised up the high bar" with "leading edge" words.
His "competencies" are superb.
"Leverage" was only a lackluster noun
Till Atticus made it a verb!
He's written for generals, senators, deans,
And he nurses ambitions
of writing for teens.
Randy plays a mean bouzouki.
He's a master of his art.
Plays so well, it's almost spooky.
Knows the Zorba theme by heart.
Doesn't miss a single beat
When breezing through the hardest licks,
But strums with vigor, stamps his feet,
And wonders, "Where are all the chicks?"
Gilroy wears a hunting cap
That dwarfs his scrawny head.
He's lined the inside neatly
With an inch of molded lead.
Enormous mirrored glasses
Serve to shield his tender eyes.
He wears a tinfoil collar
Of a truly awesome size.
The getup is peculiar,
But it's expertly designed
For making sure the C.I.A.
Cannot control his mind.
Tammy Jean the coffee fiend
Could never get enough.
She started out with Folger's,
And it led to harder stuff.
She guzzled straight espresso,
For she spurned café au lait.
Her consumption rose to ninety
Or a hundred cups a day.
She lived to feed her habit,
As a junky always does.
And now she's six feet under,
Where she never gets a buzz.
Marcus snacks on healthful greens.
He has since he was in his teens.
He doesn't own a TV set
And never lets his friends forget.
He's vowed he'll never buy a car.
Each year he tithes to NPR.
It pains him greatly just to think,
In spite of all, his turds still stink.
Mrs. Ritter, flagpole sitter,
Stays on top for days and days,
Exchanging words with passing birds,
Or just relaxing, catching rays.
Hauls up snacks in paper sacks
On fifty feet of dangling cord.
Hums a tune from Brigadoon
To keep herself from getting bored.
Though it's lonely, it's the only
Way she knows to ease her fear.
The mutant bugs and human slugs,
She fancies, cannot find her here.
My cousin Bob eats sewer rats.
He's done it all his life.
It may sound antisocial,
But that's how he met his wife.
Mathilda has a little kink.
A fetish, some would say.
She wears a pair of mukluks
And a snakeskin bustier
While spraying cans of Cheez-Whiz
On her Irish setter, Jeb.
She gets it all on video
And posts it on the web.
Silas O'Sullivan Simpson McGee
Was born for the perilous life of the sea.
From his cap to his boots a bold sailor was he.
How sad that McGee never left Kankakee.
Roger paces all day long
And sings the Tipperary song.
And if you ask him why, he'll say,
"To make the voices go away."
When Edna cooks, she always looks
Through every freshly-opened can,
In hopes that she will one day see
A little chunk of Uncle Stan.
Is in his grave...
All written content on this site ©2002-2003 Scott W. Emmons