I realize that what I should be
is ragged claws under the sea:
I can’t get a date
and it’s getting late
and the mermaids aren’t talking to me.
I seem to have eaten the plums
you were saving ’til morningtime comes–
so sweet, and so cold.
So, now that we’re old,
forgive me for acting so dumb?
Art and limerick by David Sklar
I saw my generation’s best minds
gone mad, but still trying to unwind,
and I got so upset
that I’m howling! And yet
I’m not sure what I thought I would find.
The roof leaks; the stairs have a crack,
and there’s other problems out back.
You say I owe rent?
You won’t get a cent
’til…. [arrested for Renting While Black]
I sing and expound on myself,
A topic on which I’ve a wealth
Of knowledge to spare
And more I can share:
One book–but it fills the whole shelf.
The next Revolution won’t be
Broadcast over network TV–
It’s gonna be baaad,
And it won’t feature ads–
You’ll just have to be there to see.
‘Twas the night before Christmas. The hoof
Of a reindeer alit on the roof,
Which needed repair,
So now there’s a deer
In the kitchen, dear. Sorry. My goof.
[Want more Moore? The Poetry Crisis Line call for this poem will up on Christmas Eve.]
A man shot a bird on a boat,
Then helplessly drifted afloat
Until he learned mercy,
But he’d earned this curse–he
Must keep on repeating, by rote:
“A man shot a bird on a boat,