With a one month old baby, and a toddler, I don't get much writing done at home these days. I just sat down now, and we'll see how long it takes before my wife calls me to do something.
I was at the shopping mall walk in clinic today, and had to wait for an hour. In that hour, I wrote five poems.
The first poem was based on getting something stolen from me yesterday.
They'll steal your last quarter
When you need to make a call
They'll steal your glass slippers
When your going to the ball.
They'll steal your favourite shirt
That matched your favourite vest
They'll even steal your heart meds
As you're grabbing for your chest.
They'll steal your sunscreen
On the hottest, most hellish day
They'll even steal your glasses
When you look the other way
They'll steal your tire iron
And at some point later on
When you're scrambling to change a flatty
You will notice that it's gone.
I'm fed up and I'm angry
I've had it through and through
So I better hide this poem.
Before they steal it too.
Woe to be a Leafs Fan
Oh Woe to be a Leafs fan
A bunch of useless bums
They've lost seven in a row.
Are they twiddling their thumbs?
In any normal year.
I'd have an ounce of hope
But that is long gone now,
And I'm feeling like a dope.
For if your team is in last place.
Then don't worry, here's the trick.
Next year will be better.
With a first overall draft pick.
Oh wait! Oh Crap! Oh Jeez!
I've terrible news today.
The GM of the Leafs.
He traded that pick away.
Oh well, there's always next season
Oh dear, oh no, oh boo!
That idiot GM.
Traded that pick away too!
Baby is sleeping!
Can I play with my car?
You can play with the car, but no beeping!
No beeping! Then can I play on the trampoline?
No way! There's to be no leaping!
No beeping and no leaping. Maybe the baby isn't sleeping. Can I go peeping?
No! You'll wake baby up.
I won't. I promise I'll go creeping.
No creeping, no peeping.
No creeping, no peeping, no beeping, no leaping?
What about sweeping?
Good, I hate housekeeping.
One time in Morocco
In the early autumn
I saw pumpkins with big brown spots,
sticking out the bottom.
This most strange growth,
on the underside of these pumpkins
looked like tiny bums.
And so I called them little bumkins.
Tis a fight, when I want to write.
I have to get away from the house.
For when I'm there, and have a moment to spare,
I'm hounded by my spouse.
Move that box! Pick up your socks!
In the end though, I got the last laugh.
For when she was on the loo, taking a poo.
I typed a substandard paragraph.