All Aboard
Next to me on the train
going home to the suburbs
is another guy stuck in a suit
reading his paper,
a normal-looking guy
who suddenly says
it’s terrible, what’s happening
in Syria and Iraq,
terrorists killing people.
Then he says if he believed
what the terrorists believe
he wouldn’t care either
whether he died in battle.
If 77 virgins were waiting for him,
he’d be happy to die
a martyr for the cause,
but since he’s an atheist
he knows no one is waiting.
Then he looks at me
and asks if I'm a believer.
I’m a lot bigger than he is
so I say I’m a Catholic,
and he says if he believed
what Catholics believe--
that Jesus Christ,
the Son of God, is in a wafer
waiting in that little house
in the middle of the altar--
he wouldn’t walk into church,
he would crawl up the aisle
every Sunday and lie there,
face down, praying.
He asks if I get his drift,
shaking his paper.
I say I certainly do, but
Catholics know what they have
and don’t like making a scene.
It’s in their genes from the time
they spent in the catacombs
praying not to be killed.
He says he understands
the importance of propriety
but says if Christ is God
and is on that altar, how can
Catholics just sit there,
mannequins in a pew,
standing and kneeling
once in awhile to avoid
clots in their legs.
I agree that’s a good question.
Finally he yells,
loud enough for all to hear:
For Christ’s sake,
the next time you go to church,
act like he’s there
and do something!
He shakes his paper again.
The train rolls on
and there’s a loud moment of silence.
The man has a point, I say to myself.
Finally I say I’ve enjoyed talking
and have learned a lot
but the next stop is mine.
I have to get off.
Let’s Solve These Problems, America!
The poor are hungry in America.
Their numbers would fill stadiums
throughout this prosperous land.
And feral cats are running wild,
eating songbirds in our yards,
plucking koi from garden ponds.
What can Americans do?
We can trap those feral cats,
knock them on the noggin, skin
and marinade them overnight,
barbecue them in the morning,
visit homeless camps
and invite the poor to stadiums
across America to feast at halftime.
Let them eat and give them traps
to catch their own feral cats
and become self-sustaining.
Next, to solve the problem of Ebola
we can make Liberia the 51st state,
send food stamps to our new citizens
and enroll them in Obamacare.
There’s room in Texas should
they decide to emigrate.
Midnight Conversation in a Bar
The dapper young man tells
the homeless man one stool over,
After I get my law degree,
I’ll get an MBA and go to Wall Street
and make a million before I’m thirty.
And after that?
the homeless man asks,
sipping the longneck
the young man has bought him.
I’ll start a business,
says the young man,
and make another million
by the time I’m forty,
buy a nice house in the country,
then franchise the business
so my kids can earn
as much money as I will.
You want your kids to do well.
Otherwise, why have them?
They cost money.
And after that?
the homeless man asks,
almost finished with his beer.
I’ll retire and buy condos
in Paris and London,
go on safari to Africa,
buy gold against inflation.
Once I retire I want to have fun.
And after that?
the homeless man asks,
lighting another cigarette
the young man has given him.
I’ll die when I get old
unless they invent something
that stops death, maybe a drug.
I’ll arrange my funeral
in advance, some big church,
don’t care which one
as long as they have a choir
to keep the wife happy.
And I’ll hire a good lawyer
to handle the estate.
Don’t want Uncle Sam
getting rich off me.
And after that?
the homeless man asks,
looking for another drink.
An ISIS Nursery Rhyme
Listen, young lady,
this is the man
who will cut off your legs
and this is the man
who will cut off your arms
and this is the man
who will cut off your head
if you fail to tell us where
your parents hid the gold.
Had we known about the gold,
they’d be here, not over there
in chunks, baking in the sun.
Ferguson Will Roll
Ferguson will roll
until we turn
the volume down
and have no need to seek
concussions in the street.
Now we joust
to prove that black
and white are different.
The twain must meet
for years in bed until
so many cocoa
are conceived we
drop our weapons
and no longer seek
concussions in the street.
Next to me on the train
going home to the suburbs
is another guy stuck in a suit
reading his paper,
a normal-looking guy
who suddenly says
it’s terrible, what’s happening
in Syria and Iraq,
terrorists killing people.
Then he says if he believed
what the terrorists believe
he wouldn’t care either
whether he died in battle.
If 77 virgins were waiting for him,
he’d be happy to die
a martyr for the cause,
but since he’s an atheist
he knows no one is waiting.
Then he looks at me
and asks if I'm a believer.
I’m a lot bigger than he is
so I say I’m a Catholic,
and he says if he believed
what Catholics believe--
that Jesus Christ,
the Son of God, is in a wafer
waiting in that little house
in the middle of the altar--
he wouldn’t walk into church,
he would crawl up the aisle
every Sunday and lie there,
face down, praying.
He asks if I get his drift,
shaking his paper.
I say I certainly do, but
Catholics know what they have
and don’t like making a scene.
It’s in their genes from the time
they spent in the catacombs
praying not to be killed.
He says he understands
the importance of propriety
but says if Christ is God
and is on that altar, how can
Catholics just sit there,
mannequins in a pew,
standing and kneeling
once in awhile to avoid
clots in their legs.
I agree that’s a good question.
Finally he yells,
loud enough for all to hear:
For Christ’s sake,
the next time you go to church,
act like he’s there
and do something!
He shakes his paper again.
The train rolls on
and there’s a loud moment of silence.
The man has a point, I say to myself.
Finally I say I’ve enjoyed talking
and have learned a lot
but the next stop is mine.
I have to get off.
Let’s Solve These Problems, America!
The poor are hungry in America.
Their numbers would fill stadiums
throughout this prosperous land.
And feral cats are running wild,
eating songbirds in our yards,
plucking koi from garden ponds.
What can Americans do?
We can trap those feral cats,
knock them on the noggin, skin
and marinade them overnight,
barbecue them in the morning,
visit homeless camps
and invite the poor to stadiums
across America to feast at halftime.
Let them eat and give them traps
to catch their own feral cats
and become self-sustaining.
Next, to solve the problem of Ebola
we can make Liberia the 51st state,
send food stamps to our new citizens
and enroll them in Obamacare.
There’s room in Texas should
they decide to emigrate.
Midnight Conversation in a Bar
The dapper young man tells
the homeless man one stool over,
After I get my law degree,
I’ll get an MBA and go to Wall Street
and make a million before I’m thirty.
And after that?
the homeless man asks,
sipping the longneck
the young man has bought him.
I’ll start a business,
says the young man,
and make another million
by the time I’m forty,
buy a nice house in the country,
then franchise the business
so my kids can earn
as much money as I will.
You want your kids to do well.
Otherwise, why have them?
They cost money.
And after that?
the homeless man asks,
almost finished with his beer.
I’ll retire and buy condos
in Paris and London,
go on safari to Africa,
buy gold against inflation.
Once I retire I want to have fun.
And after that?
the homeless man asks,
lighting another cigarette
the young man has given him.
I’ll die when I get old
unless they invent something
that stops death, maybe a drug.
I’ll arrange my funeral
in advance, some big church,
don’t care which one
as long as they have a choir
to keep the wife happy.
And I’ll hire a good lawyer
to handle the estate.
Don’t want Uncle Sam
getting rich off me.
And after that?
the homeless man asks,
looking for another drink.
An ISIS Nursery Rhyme
Listen, young lady,
this is the man
who will cut off your legs
and this is the man
who will cut off your arms
and this is the man
who will cut off your head
if you fail to tell us where
your parents hid the gold.
Had we known about the gold,
they’d be here, not over there
in chunks, baking in the sun.
Ferguson Will Roll
Ferguson will roll
until we turn
the volume down
and have no need to seek
concussions in the street.
Now we joust
to prove that black
and white are different.
The twain must meet
for years in bed until
so many cocoa
are conceived we
drop our weapons
and no longer seek
concussions in the street.
