Friday, June 12, 2009

Mike's Poetry

Ode to Vanna White
(To be sung to the tune of "Sandra Dee" from Grease)

Oh, look at me, I'm Vanna White.
I spin the Wheel of Fortune each night.
My hair is so pretty,
My smile is so bright,
My name is Vanna White.
I pour myself into a dress,
And give the wheel a coy caress.
For this they pay me,
A hell of a mess.
I'm wealthy Vanna White.
Oh lucky me, I am a star!
The press brought me to where I are.
The whole dam thing,
Is quite insane.
Is ossifies my brain.
Oh what is to become of me,
From all this publicity!
Does this exposure have any worth?
I think I'll go ask Ollie North.


My friends who think they know me,
Marvel how "together" I am.
They see me floating through life,
As though I don't give a damn.

The cause of successes,
And the cure for all my ills,
Are lying on that table.
Those tiny yellow pills.

My doctor gave them to me
To steer me through my fears.
Those little yellow monsters
Have run me for forty years.

They greet me in the morning
As I stagger out of bed.
They're always there at night time
To ease the evening's dread.

During the daylight hours,
When stress becomes too much,
I know my little yellow pills will
Come through in the clutch.

So in the super market,
Or paying all those bills,
We face life's many hardships,
Me and those little yellow pills.

I deny that I'm an addict.
Those pills are not some dope!
They're a medical prescription
Without which I can't cope.

And my doctor's not a pusher,
A professional man is he.
A-raking in the Profits
From suckers such as me.

Pot and Snow

The papers are full of stories
Of the horrors of "Pot" and "Snow"
And the detestable drug peddler.
He's the lowest of the low.

The tales of this schoolyard ogre
Are enough to make you shiver.
A little "Grass" goes up in smoke,
And a child's washed down the river.

High on a hill, above us all
Perched like a great wise eagle
There's a man whose sin's greater by far
For his pushing's entirely legal.

Doctor Jones is his name.
And much to our shame,
His sales are entirely legal.

The victim comes to his office.
She's pale and nervously stricken.
The Doctor is thinking "AHA!!" to himself.
"Here comes a pluckable chicken"

He listens to all her complaints.
An incredible tale of ills.
He nods his head wisely, takes a few notes,
And prescribes a number of pills.

Valiant Valium leads the list
Of pills that will keep her down.
This tiny innocuous tablet
Has tranquilized half the town.

With his hand out, the doctor is waiting
For his ill-gotten fee to be paid.
While his victim, her misery ended,
Is found dead by the upstairs maid.

Doctor Jones is his name
And much to his shame
His sales are entirely legal.

Don't ask what would have happened
If, so many years ago,
When offered a prescription,
I'd bluntly answered NO!!

I'd probably be quite nervous,
And depressed to some degree;
But that sadly frightened person
Would be completely me!

But now I've got to leave you.
I'm feeling slightly ill.
It's my stomach's way of telling me
I need a yellow pill.

Lady Clarice

The icy cold wet wind driven rain
Pummeled the grass again and again.
O'er Donnigans moor the moon didn't shine,
And all that was heard was the wind's high pitched whine.

What birds that were there were hidden from view
By the voluminous clouds of low lying dew.
The animal life, the mice and the moles,
Were all safely hidden in deep muddy holes.

Into this wild scene, in a magenta chemise,
Amorously ambled sweet Lady Clarise.

She was tall and pale, and wondrously thin.
With long flaxen hair which grew from her chin.

On the tip of her nose which shook with each snort
Was a mag ni fi cent bluish black wart
What was she doing there that cold rainy night?
where was she going without any light?

Why was she sneaking out into the night?
She was meeting her lover, the groundskeeper Dwight.
They met on the moor, in that setting so bleak.
And make violent love at least once a week.

They'd snuggle, and struggle, and tickle, and moan,
And nestle, and wrestle, and breathlessly groan.
Their love it was boundless, a volcanic eruption,
Which was violently made in the Moor's wet corruption.

We who have seen it must sit here and curse,
And write of their love in turgid, Lyttonian verse.

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