‘Top a lemon tree, twiddling the stem,

Of her ripening, sweet, juicy gem,

Clementine decked her-

-Self in sticky nectar,

And christened it “Crème de la Clem”.


Hitherto had the hamlet suspected Clem

Of lewd conduct with citrus in Bethlehem,

But their slurs, she averted,

And tartly asserted,

“When life gives you lemons, have sex with them.”



Apples to Orgasms

On a tuffet she lay,

As each dwindling ray,

Kissed her muffet like summer’s last lover.

Splayed without care,

And as perfectly bare,

As the autumn-blown branches above her.

Hand on her thigh,

Welling up like the eye

Of a storm, calm, awaiting ascent.

Moans from her mouth,

Sent the birds soaring south

For the winter of her sweet content.

Like a spider,

Her fingers crept nimbly inside her,

And tickled her pink till she’d swoon.

At each lithe, little diddle,

She’d fit like a fiddle,

Strung tautly, yet just out of tune.

Pleasure’s perennial petals

Fell gently and settled

By the bed of her chasm,

With each season that came,

So came she, in the same

Way one might compare apples to orgasms.

The joy it would bring

Her to usher in spring,

Made her flesh and her spirit both swell.

Delighted, she found,

Flowers bloomed from the ground,

In the spots where her honeydew fell.


The Ballad Of Guffins The Gallant

Of the joust, proclaimed Gallant Sir Guffins,

“With each vict’ry, my fortitude toughens!”

In his cups, though, he’d say,

Where his heart truly lay,

Was in farting upon English muffins.

And as errant air blared from his fanny,

Bid the Knight (with no absence of canny)

To his squire “Egad!

Henceforth, butter these, lad,

Ere ye nooketh them into mine cranny!”


50 Shades of Hay

Returned from our ride,

Carl, Catherine and I’d,

Always find ourselves in disarray.


Two little girls,

Penny loafers and curls,

‘Top a mud-smattered Clydesdale valet.


Bedraggled with crud,

Would we scrub, soap and sud

At the comely colt’s calico coat.


Stood he seventeen hands,

Of a thoroughbred strand

(And of Flemish descent, I might note).


One day it was so,

As we buffed from below,

A gargantuan phallus unsheathed.


A portentous projection,

The equine erection,

“Clean the penis!” my friend brusquely breathed.


So we lathered and gripped,

But we slipped as it whipped.

Washing horse hog, it seemed, was a feat.


When we mustered our might,

Firmly latching on tight,

The steed’s staff swept us clean off our feet.


“Don’t let go!” Catherine cried,

And for dear life, we tried

To hold on to the renegade rod.


To the cock, did we cling,

To and fro, would we swing,

Our foray, we feared fatally flawed.


Abrupt came the spasm,

Sheer stallion orgasm.

Like two little dolls, were we tossed.


Unawares of the scope,

And presuming ‘twas soap

In which suddenly then we’d been glossed.


Now Forty years gone,

Fully grown and moved on,

Since that cosmically curious day.


Only just twenty-eight

Since sweet Cat met her fate,

Crushed to death ‘neath a large Cleveland Bay.


By her grave I reflect,

As I pay my respect,

And I lay down a wreath of bay laurel.


Every now and again,

Do I think of my friend,

And a calico Clydesdale called Carl.


Merciful Mothballs

Foreword: This poem is formally dedicated to Norm MacDonald, the funniest guy I [don’t] know.

“How do you do today, moth? Don’t be shy.”

“Bozhe moi, doctor, where to begin?

Beset with cold sweats, seized by spells of shakes, I

Feel my fevered fate fast wearing thin.

For my boss, Mr. Gregor-Alinnovitch, year

After year, have I labored away.

Now my back, as my spirit, has broken, I fear,

Laid to waste by this bitter ballet.

Weary, I wake in the night, nearly numb,

To a woman, from cruel, dreamless sleep,

Whom once called I wife, though now what has become

Of that life, I know not, and I weep.

Aleksendria, doctor, my youngest, she fell,

As so many, e’er wintertide draws,

Unforgiving, the frostbitten beckoning knell

Tolled her claim into icicled claws.

I avoid my son’s sad, sunken stare, for I fear

(This the most painful pill I’ve to swallow)

The same cowardice, daily, I meet in my mirror,

Now the love I once bore him rings hollow.

Doctor, sometimes I won’t feel at all like a moth,

But a spider whose end is at hand,

An inferno of flames, ‘neath my web, dance and froth,

As I swing by my last silken strand.

Had I one kernel of courage, I might

Find within me the strength for to draw

Up the cocked, loaded gun by my bedside one night,

And escape from this hellish façade.”

“Merciful mothballs! I grieve for your pain,

But you know I’m a foot doctor, right?”

“Of course, comrade doc, I don’t mean to complain,

I’m just here ’cause you left on the light.”


Discordant Duet

You provide me with purpose,

Your touch brings me life,

And with trebly crescendo I cry.

I trill at your tickle,

I fit as you finger me,

Practiced with prowess most spry.

Inside of me, trembling,

You hammer away

On my heartstrings, as gently you croon,

In my belly, vibrations

Of bass tones so sharp,

With my tenor you’re always in tune.

Glistening black

Upon delicate white,

Baby, grand is our tender vignette.

I love when you use me,

I lust to be played,

Like a lover’s discordant duet.

Pissin’ In The Wind Up A Mountain

As Sisyphus took a piss into the wind

‘Neath the boulder, eternal his place,

His decision, at once, did he wish to rescind,

When the warm assault seasoned his face.


Dejected, defeated, and dripping with pee,

Compounded belabored humility.

His abysmal existence doomed always to be

But a sick exercise in futility.


Ineffectual, vain, unavailing, at that,

Was this feckless, ill-fated Olympian.

But the way that shit just seemed to roll for this cat

Was decidedly duly Sisyphean.


In the poorly lit waiting room, Valerie dear,

Of the 9th precinct, down in the basement,

Your last words still echo and ring in my ear,

As I give the detective my statement.

“You look hungry,” you’d greeted me, glint in your eye,

All but nude, save for shoes, at your door,

“I could eat,” I replied, diving headlong, I

Started lap snacking right there on the floor.

Ah, yodeling deep in your gully, my mind

Drifted back to the last time I’d eaten.

That stale Peanut Chew in the ashtray defined,

For me, such a delectable treat then.

Then ‘round my head, feeling your quaking thighs tighten,

Twixt nethers so gently, I pulsed.

“So far, so good,” thought I, my sense of pride heightened,

I loved how you thrashed and convulsed.

But when next I glanced up, I was puzzled to see you

Assailing yourself with an Epi-Pen.

‘Twas precisely that instance, beloved, I knew

How the both of us teemed with adrenaline.

Resolute, I returned to the task I had started,

Urged on by your whooping and wailing,

“Don’t stop!” the choked, swollen command you imparted,

Deciphered though seizing and flailing.

Wearied, I watched as your windpipe constricted.

Oh, would that I could have been, Valerie,

More considerate of (just a lick) those afflicted

With clearly severe peanut allergies.


Barroom Betty

Her lips were wet,

Her hips wide-set,

Her voice rasped deep and coarse.


Her eyes were shrewd,

Her thighs tattooed,

Her tits a tour de force.


Her scent of beer,

She bent my ear,

She’d recently divorced.


With glee I reeled,

When she revealed

The absence of her drawers.


My world a blur,

“Would you prefer,”

I slurred “My place or yours?”


But once inside,

She robbed me blind,

That two-bit Trojan Whorse.

‘Twas Midday Before Christmas

‘Twas midday before Christmas and Lachlan MacLinner,

Was out hunting game for his family’s dinner.

Plaid stockings clung tight to his legs with great care,

Whilst, not one, but two hats, hid his red, thinning hair.

At his kilt did the cruel winter wind bite and tear,

Making prunes of a norm’ly more pendulous pair.

And though the thick woodland lent cloak to his prey,

Onward still Lachlan trudged; He could spare no delay.

For his wife, Osla Jean, was an ill-tempered shrew,

Like a banshee she’d shriek till her face would turn blue,

So a-hunting he’d go if it took him all night,

If he brought home no supper, his name would be shite.

But just then, from the brush, a slight stirring arose,

Tightly holding his breath, as he stared, Lachlan froze,

For his eyes had befallen a supple young ewe,

“Why, this cloven hoofed beauty will certainly do!”


At his favorite bludgeoning cudgel, he knuckled,

Then fondled the handle and gleefully chuckled,

And gently knelt down in a Bonnie Bloom bed,

As visions of lamb chops danced ‘round in his head.

When at once something happened he couldn’t explain,

Sharply, synapses fired and popped in his brain,

And where once stood his prized, would-be, holiday meal,

Bore abruptly to he, then a different appeal.

His face became flushed and his hands became clammy,

His eyes blurred and swam as he ogled the lammy

Who understood well what would soon come to pass,

As their gaze met, at last, in the tall Highland grass.

Well, the sheep barely noticed his billy club clatter

To the ground with a pound, matting flowers much flatter.

Then “fergive me,” he plead to the stars up above,

“But blessin’ me bagpipes, I think I’m in love.”

So he lifted his kilt, and he tendered his tool,

Grabbed a fistful and pulled on the delicate wool,

Well-aware, midst the whirlwind of shearling and plaid

Of the best rack of lamb that he ever had had.

Then he shivered and grunted, and sighed and he coughed,

As he loosened his grip on her coat ever soft.

And mopping his brow from beneath his two hats,

Lachlan laughed, “Jaysus Christ, I ‘bout soiled me spats!”


Then he struck up a match on a thick Birnam Oak,

Drawing in a deep breath for to light up his smoke.

But his lighthearted mood quickly faded to dark,

And he swung at the oak landing blows in the bark.

Wincing, he cradled his bloodied left hand,

His tortured lament echoed out through the land,

“I have never known love like I’ve felt for this flower,”

“I cannae go home, I just dooon’t have the power!”

So he stood in the snowbank, a Scotsman divided,

Projecting each posture his pickle provided,

Though whatever position he chose to pursue,

Would be equally horrid a hullabaloo.


When, famished and frozen, and falling apart,

He felt a soft tickle that warmed his cold heart.

As the lamb licked his raw, wounded hand, Lachlan knew

Precisely just that which he needed to do.

The townsfolk flocked ‘round as he made his return,

“Lachlan’s braved through the storm!” the mob audibly churned.

“Were it cold old enough fer ye?” dogged Dougal Dundeather.

“Oh, shut it, ye bawbag,‘tis fine Scottish weather.”

Then from over his shoulder he hoisted his prize,

And brought it down softly before widened eyes.

“Ye doss lucky bas.” Hamish Henderson said,

“Tha’s a foin piece o’ mutton there, Lachy m’lad.”


“But tell me, MacLinner, just how did ye foind,

Such a right, bonnie beast in the snow?” Hamish pined.

Then Lachlan MacLinner grinned sheepishly, sighing,

And shrugging he answered “Oh, quite satisfying.”