Cowbirds

Behold the humble Cowbird, such an evolutionary quirk.
Somehow nature taught this bird to be a first-rate jerk!
When it comes to low and dirty tricks no other bird can match it.
She lays an egg in her neighbors' nest; leaving them to hatch it!

She says she’s far too busy; "I’ve got to follow the herd".
I say that she’s just lazy! You conniving cowardly cowbird!
When her ample hatchling sheds its egg, the bugger’s just not fair.
It crowds its nest mates to the ground or eats more than its share!

Sound familiar? I hope to shout! Of all things that annoy . . .
The cowbirds in the office here act out this scornful ploy
By dropping projects on my desk, ill-thought, half-baked at best;
Expecting me to hatch them out and make room in my nest!

Our bosses do this all the time, but I reckon that’s their lot,
But what of Slow-Joe down the hall? I can’t believe this rot!
He hangs around and wrings his hands, judging my ambition;
Taking potshots while I sweat to bring his work fruition!

The problem with this cowbird gig; the thing that gets my goat
Is that cowbirds get promoted, and I don’t get a vote!
This is small of me, I admit; this outrage misdirected.
Cowbirds will always tick me off, at least 'til I'm perfected!

The Rusty Old Schwinn

The Red Ryder wagon sat there in the yard
By the sandbox, all ready to go.
And the Big-Wheel trike was there by the tree
Where Johnny left it a moment ago.

But the rusty Schwinn bicycle lay on its side
In the grass, like its will had expired.
Why was it not upright, ready to go?
Why, the poor thing was simply two-tired!

Why There are no Snakes in New Zealand

The story is told of a Maori King bold
Who dared cheat the Prince of Siam.
I’ll leave it to you to decide if its true.
But if you're not convinced, at least I am!

This king was annoyed so he filled his bored void
By selling the fauna of his wee land.
He soon grew in fame, none dared speak his name,
He was the richest in all of New Zealand!

But this roll could not last; the fates swooped in fast
With an invoice for arrogant King Frodo!
A prince of yon borders sailed in with his order
For a half dozen snakes and some Dodo.

“The snakes are all gone!” Frodo said with a yawn.
"And we ate the last Dodo last week!”
Thus the king blew him off with a wave and a scoff;
“Look elsewhere for that which you seek!”

But the prince had prepaid! And he screamed out in rage,
“What is that in the cage with the hasp?”
King Frodo’s eyes narrowed, “I won that from Pharaoh,
And that, that’s a two-headed asp!”

“And though its not fair, it is simply too rare,
Now be off or I’ll soon have your head!”
But the prince made this threat, “Dear King you’ll regret!”
Then he left leaving Frodo to dread . . . . . . .

At daylight’s first gleam, you could hear Frodo scream
As he raced to the harbor to spy,
And lo, by the pier was a note on a spear . . .
“Keep my gold! . . . But kiss your asp goodbye!”

Climb

In a far-away land, far out of my reach
Lies a beautiful island, with a wide sandy beach.
And hiding the splendor of the world there within
Are high rampart cliffs with brier on the rim.

It is there, in that world where most dare not go,
That a dear friend resides, with riches aglow.
For the high rocks, to him, are nothing at all.
He lives for the climb while I fear the fall.

His scarred limbs bear witness; he well knows the fall,
But he’d rather die climbing than not live at all!
I envy my dear friend. . . . For his riches? Oh no!
But for the courage to climb where I’ll never dare go.

I stare up from the beach at the brier on the rim.
And search for the greatness to climb after him.
Somewhere in my soul like that rim o’er the beach,
Lies a rough latent courage, just out of my reach.

Irony in the Sky

White chevron squadrons usher in spring
With squawking and honking and flapping of wings.
Their return brings a weekend to revel in fun.
The locals all love it, and hundreds more come!
But the poor migrant snow goose must be sorely perplexed;
Revered on one weekend, then slaughtered the next!

Horsing Around

If I were a horse, what kind would I be?
A raging white stallion so wild and so free,
Leading the herd to new pastures; green,
Sinuous, shiny; a sight to be seen!
Handsome and striking; pawing the air
I’d be the desire of every young mare.

No, not a stallion; a stunning paint war horse
Adorned with bold markings and feathers of course.
Only a brave chief could sit me astride,
Into the battle we’d gallop and ride!
We’d ride at high noon and into the night
Striking fear in the hearts of all who dare fight!

Oh, who am I kidding? I’m not of that sort!
I’ve hardly the passion to kick or to snort.
A poor sorrel plough horse is what I would be
No stranger to rider nor harness; that’s me!
Wearing white socks; the work I’d enjoy.
With a star on my forehead; I'm such a good boy!

Ego-centrifuge

With iphones, itunes, ipods, argh!
Its always I or me.
In this ingrate, self-indulgent world,
I'm glad we have the Wii!

Turn Me Around

This morning I looked in the mirror
And experienced a curious sight.
The old man looking back at me
Had his left hand on his right.

If left is right and right is left,
Why is not up-side down?
I suppose it would be too difficult
To smile when we wanted to frown!??.

The Sugarville Sage

There’s a desert sage northwest of here
In a town called Sugarville,
Not on the top of a mountain
Nor even a humble hill.

This sage lives on the desert floor
Where the ring-neck roosters prattle,
Where rabbits hide in the rabbit brush
And the prairie rattlers rattle.

I would walk five miles on wounded feet
Just to spend an afternoon
And listen to wisdom, free of spin,
Out there in the desert dunes.

For this sage sees life as life unfolds;
The dross refused as we progress.
She knows there are no perfect flowers,
But loves them none-the-less.

No agenda; just the truth!
And we listen all the more,
And count it fortune she is here;
This sage on the desert floor.

To Karen, who is truly wise beyond her years!

I Should Have Been a Farmer

I should have been a farmer
Then my days would be my own.
I’d drive a tractor, dawn ‘til dusk
And wonder where time had flown.

Instead of trying to please a boss;
Those demanding corporate smucks,
I’d be wheelin’ in style, in fancy duds
And a brand new pickup truck!

I could cuss at the rain when I’m bailin’
And cuss at the drought after June,
But at least that’s good reason for cussin’
Not like dancin’ that corporate tune!

I should have been a farmer
With ducks and geese on a pond.
I’d burn my dikes in the winter,
From my truck, with a magic wand!

Sure, I’d have to pay the piper
When the weatherman was wrong.
But it sure beats payin’ taxes and
You can’t spend it when your gone!

If only I were a farmer
I’d be boss of my own show,
And I’d spend December in Vegas
Cheerin’ at the rodeo!

I’d skip out on the bishop’s sermons
So I could go change the water.
And all those gorgeous girls of mine,
Well, they’d be farmer’s daughters!

Yes, I should have been a farmer
Then my wife would own art and stuff.
And I would have been a farmer,
But I’m not smart enough!