Humorous Poems


Adam Said  (A Mother’s Day poem I wrote to my wife.)
Apples  (Did you ever play Applecore/Baltimore?)
Bill Shultz and the Teton Ride (The greatest scout trip we had.)
Celery Patch War  (We planned and fought these wars in preparation for WWI, I guess.)
Creeper  (Danger in the London fog.)
First Cousin  (Stealing watermelons.)
Flying Machine  (This happened in a friend’s yard years back.)
Frail  (A snail is frail.)
Futuristic  (There’s no beer in the Millenium.)
Hot-ended Cats  (Turpentine.)
Jordan River Ambush  (The first time I was shot at.)
Rat  (About Italian prisoners of war in the United States.)
Stagecoach Hit (Western Saga based on one of my paintings.)
The Banker’s Son (Western Saga)
The Punch  (Nobody likes a bully.)
The Square Boat Which Wouldn’t Float (The boat was made in my back yard way back when.)

They (Your children may like this. Those mean little imps!)




 Adam Said
For Mother’s Day
Saturday, May 8, 1999


Adam said, Eve my dear,
You’ve eaten the forbidden fruit.
She looked at him and answered back,
Yes, I’m getting the boot.


He said to her, Eve my dear,
I like your skin and hair,
And I get a little tingle
When with those eyes you stare.


She said to him, I’ll miss you so
When Father kicks me out.
Now don’t you ever think of me;
Never give a pout.


He answered back with some regret,
I’ll dearly miss you too,
If I didn’t have a lot more ribs
I’m sure with you I’d go.


That’s right, she said,
You do have ribs a plenty more to spare,
But won’t you miss this little rib?
Won’t you miss my stare?


She stared at him, he looked away,
Then rubbed his perfect tummy,
You know, he said, I have a pain,
I’m really getting hungry.


She bid him come and sat him down,
And put his lunch before him.
He ate the fruit and felt real good,
“I’m going with you, honey!”


Friday, March 26, 1999


I don’t need to point
At a word anymore.
There’s so many hounding me
To put them forth.
They nag,
They yell,
I say
Oh well,
It’s your turn
Because you won’t go away.


Apple core!
Who for?


So we sat in the old apple tree
In those days,
The long summer heat
Would not go away
So we climbed and ate apples
And played that old game.
We threw our apples at Dick
Who couldn’t dodge our aim.


Then it was Dick’s turn,
His turn for revenge,
And he called out for Charlie
And we done him in.
Then I would say,
It’s quite time to stop.
We can go to the corner.
You can buy me a pop.


Apple core!
Who for?
 Bill Shultz and the Teton Ride
Monday, May 3, 1999


I was sitting in my office
In the York Ward
When in came a tall, red-haired lad,
An emissary of our Lord.


I said, “You’re Bill Schultz’ son,
That I know for sure.
How is your dad,
I haven’t seen him for years?


“How did you know?”
That’s what he said.
I said, “You look just like him.
A better friend no man ever had.


I picked up the phone
And asked, What’s your home number?
I dialed and there was Bill.
I said I’ve got a young man here!


Talk to him for a spell.
They talked and then
I talked to Bill,
Renewing things long past.


I told the lad of his great dad,
And about our scouting days.


We were in the Teton Mountains–
From the troop,
Larry Haywood and I
Snuck away to rent horses
And ride the trails;
We did it every day.


Then on Friday,
A beautiful summer’s day,
The troop decided to ride.


We rented horses
For one scout or two,
The wranglers
“These critters are not broke
For double ridin’,
And don’t forget that these
Are trail horses,
Not made to race on track.”


So off we went,
And some of the scouts
Got thrown for double ridin’.
I remember Dickey Duncan
Limping down the trail.
He’s long gone now,
Died in a fire
At the Capital Theater.


The rest of us
Took the Jenny Lake road;
Bill Schultz decided to gallop.
So down the middle
Of the blacktop he rode,
Our leader out in front.


I yelled, “Don’t gallop
On the road,
Get back on the trail!”


That’s when a survey team
Flashed a steel tape
In front of Bill’s fast steed.
The critter turned toward the east,
Bill kept going south.


He smashed upon the blacktop,
The other horses followed his.
The scouts had no control,
The horses were going home.


Well, Wally fell after
The first fence was leaped,
Along with several others,
Almost in a heap.


Larry and I tried to stop the horses,
But they just kept running.
We knew we were in trouble now,
The wranglers saw us coming.


The second fence
Dropped the rest of the troop,
All but me and Larry.
We rained up before the last fence
Waiting for the wrangler’s fury.


“You two know better
Than to run these horses!
You’ve been here every day.
Get down from there,
And don’t come back.
We’re sending you away!”


We slithered down
And caught their boots,
Making our poor rumps pain.
“We don’t ever want to see you two!
No, not ever again!”


Well, we walked back
Across the fields,
To help our friends along.
We saw old Bill,
His red hair flashing,
He was limping like the rest.


His clothes were torn,
His face was bleeding
All because of not heeding
My yell to stop riding
Down the middle of that road
Like Jerry Colona charging
In The Road to Rio.


I often think of that trip,
We worked so hard to go.
We rode up,
Twelve or thirteen to a car,
The old tires often blowing.


We swam in freezing lakes,
We hiked for twenty miles.
Those were the days
Of splendor in Wyoming,
Being with my pals-
Now some gone to heaven.
I looked at Bill’s son,
He looked back at me,
A smiling, happy lad.
He said, “Dad never told me
About that ride.
I really wish he had!”


 Celery Patch War
Friday, May 7, 1999


The celery patch was a remnant of the past,
A five acre plot of tumbleweeds and tall grass.
But the wild celery stems, as tall as a horse,
Made great spears and arrows for war.


In the tip of the arrow, we placed a nail
To give it the weight to make it sail.
We made spears with the thicker celery trunks,
And tomahawks too, that gave a good thunk.


Planning for the annual celery patch war,
Took a great deal of effort;
To make arrows, spears, and tomahawks,
Plus for each army, a tumbleweed fort.


There was our army, unnamed,
The other the Halford / Buck Gang, ill-famed.
The war might go on for several days;
We would all gain our fame or go down in flames.


The battle started early on a fine summer morn;
I spied for our team, the Halfords to find.
I crept thought the yards that were adjacent the patch;
I looked for the enemy–they were still in bed.


The war began with spears and flying arrows,
There was screaming and yelling from arrow-stung fellows.
I charged with my tomahawk, took a spear in the chest
From too big a boy, he knocked out my breath.


The tumbleweed forts were something to see;
They were as high as a house, much higher than me.
We shot flaming arrows high into the air,
The enemy fort was in flames, their soldiers did flee.


Our fort was no safer, they burned it to the ground;
Not one single tumbleweed could still be found.
Then the patch took fire, it started at the dry irrigation ditch,
The people stormed out of their houses, with wet gunnysacks swished.


An old lady said, “You’ll burn my house down!”
But we had switched to throwing bricks we found on the ground.
The fire trucks came along with the police,
That was the end of the day–they ruined our peace.


Most all of those soldiers too soon left for the war
Leaving us smaller kids looking for more.
But that was the last of the big celery patch fights
Where we dug in and fought with all of our might.


Tuesday, April 6, 1999


I’m back to finger poking
In my pile of books.
I poked and found creeper,
Let’s see how it looks.


The creeper crept
As creepers do,
In the London fog.
The barmaid
Heard his footsteps soft.
I think she was afraid.


Well, you would be,
If you were she,
Walking in the mist.
How could you
Hold back your fears
If you were that miss?


She heard the chimes
Of Abbey ring,
They said to run like hell.
She took off her shoes,
The heels too high,
And then she ran pell-mell.


When she entered
In the square,
Lord Wellington
Stood there tall.
I know you’re just a statue,
But can’t you help at all?


On your way,
Little bird.
Make your feet move fast,
If he comes too close to me,
It will be
His last pass.


She ran and ran
Into Hyde Park,
Under the whispering trees.
Run lass, run!
That’s what they said,
The creeper’s nigh to thee.


Oh dear! Oh dear!
That’s what she said,
The hooting owl
Said so.
He said to her as best he could,
Is that as fast as you can go?


I’m panting,
My chest burns red,
I’m in quite a spot.
Run on is what the nightbird said,
To run is all you’ve got.


So she
Ran on through the night,
Over hill and dell.
I checked on her
A fortnight back,
By darn, she’s running still.


 First Cousin
Wednesday, April 7, 1999


That’s the way it is
In the dictionary.
Two words in one,
A lot for your money.


When I think of cousins,
I always think of Bill.
From brother, Cliff, and Aaron,
We youngsters learned to steal.


They got a knife
From the kitchen
When Aunt Rura
Wasn’t lookin’.
They wrapped it
In a cloth,
And then we were off.
To where? I was thinkin’.


When we got down to the pasture,
They said, You two lay low.
We’ll be back in a while,
We’ve got some place to go.


So Bill and I sat there,
Waiting for their return.
We thought we heard
A shotgun blast.
We thought we heard
The farmer’s blast.
Salt and pepper
Was the load.


Well, back came Bill and Aaron,
Our older brothers, true.
They carried a big green melon,
I knew what we would do.
Out came the knife,
To each a slice,
And for good measure,
Still another.
That was a watermelon
That we liked.
Wow! What a brother!


They laughed and told us of their trials,
But we were too young to go,
To take the melon number two,
Or even any other.
He shoots at folks,
That farmer does,
With salt instead of lead.
But when it hits
Your sunburned hide,
You think you will be dead.
That’s the way it is, Brother.


We could hardly wait
For them


 Flying Machine
Monday, July 26, 1999


We gathered at Charlie Druce’s house
With hammers nails and saws.
With orange crates, the older boys built an airplane
That I knew could never fly.
I was the youngest,
The older boys were nuts!


An airplane made from orange crates?
They thought the wood was light.
Surely with cloth coverings,
There would be a successful flight.
With a boy in the cockpit?
I said, “You guys are nuts!”


Well, they didn’t let me do too much,
I was too young for such serious work.
I said, “I may be younger than you guys are,
But I’m not a stupid jerk!
That thing won’t fly and you will die”
They said, “You stupid little twirp!”


They finished the plane and said,
“Now that’s a thing of beauty!
Let’s get this thing up on the garage,
Charlie, the pilot can do his duty.”
I cringed as Charlie got into the thing.
His brain was no bigger than a cooty.


I’d never saw anything fall so fast,
It didn’t fly with expected grace.
Charlie face had lost it’s smile,
Nothing but a grimace,
As the flimsy mass met the earth,
Or the other way around,
The great airship shattered to pieces
When Charlie hit the ground.


To my surprise,
Charlie survived,
With cuts, abrasions and bruises.
“That was quite a flight,” he said.
The others quite agreed.
They thought that a great flight had occurred
Despite the shattered wood.
I said, “Your minds have fled!”


They went into the club house,
But they wouldn’t let me in.
There, they would talk up their great feat.
I wasn’t wanted there.
They said, “You are the lookout,
In case the Buck Gang comes.
Just warn us by talking though this piece of garden hose,
Say, All Clear, until they come.


Well, I sat out there for a while on an old wooden barrel.
But I got tired of saying, “All clear!”
So I went home.


Saturday, April 10, 1999


A snail is frail,
A test I’ve devised,
Put on your boot,
Then stamp down hard
On the snail.
To look at what you did
Is ill advised.


Friday, April 9, 1999


Look ahead!
Look ahead!


The year was 2044,
If not that,
The year before.
I vonged to Osher
On the cape,
Spent the winter there,
Looking for a polar bear.


One was seen in 2024,
None after
And few before.
But one must exist,
Though old and white.
One polar bear
Had to be all right.


I took my Flecscan
From its case.
I cast my eyes
Around the place.
All was white
Except the sky.
But a polar bear
I did not spy.


I put my stool
Upon the ice,
Opened my lunch tote,
And ate quite well.
But then I thought
I saw a flash.
I did, the sun
Had made a splash
On something on the hills away.
I said, I can make it
In just one day.
For after all,
The days are long.
The arctic winters
Do prolong.


I jumped in my Scouten
And pushed the button.
It raised itself
Into the air.
I said, Forward.
It sped from there.


I zipped along,
Taking in the sights.
Some ice,
Some snow,
Not much else.
Then we came
To ocean’s shore,
Shot up the coast
To more explore.


There it is!
You blasted machine.
Let’s see what is
That flashing thing.
I hopped out
Onto the snow.
The wind was whistling,
I looked below.


Here it is,
A can is here.
Once it held
Eight ounces of beer.
Now this a very exciting clue.
Another bear hunter,
Must be here too.


I flashed my IF
All around.
It flickered
And pointed
To the ground.
I kicked around
The frozen earth
And found a board
Which I


I picked,
I dug,
I scrapped
And drilled.
The board
From the earth
I peeled.
I lifted the thing
And peered into the dark.
Out jumped a polar bear,
The grumpy sort.
He said,
What are you doing here?
Don’t think


Another voice
From in the deep,
Who is it Henry,
Another creep?
Wants your beer.
I’m sure that’s true.
Let’s eat him
Up with our little cubs too.


I shook,
I shivered,
I was
Worried some.
I’m looking
For beer,
That’s why
I’ve come.
You see,
We don’t have it
During the Millennium.


He snarled at me.
I did run!


 Hot-ended Cats


Larry, not my brother, had a mean streak–
We all did when we were kids–
And he turpentined a cat’s rear-end,
You should have heard it scream
As it drugs its butt in the dirt
and ran away.
Not a forgetful day.
 Jordan River Ambush


Dunk and I got shot at
On the banks of the River Jordan.
We were naked as jaybirds in July;
His half-brother and his gang
Are the ones that did the shooting.
We took off on the fly.


Yes, we grabbed our clothes
And ran away;
Those 22 caliber shells we hated.
We ran like hell
To embarrass a horse,
Even one well gaited.


We got to the fair grounds office
And told them to call the police.
They said, “Get out of here,
You dirty kids.
Don’t mess up
This place.


So we went home
Knowing adults don’t care
About the plights of kids.
Why once, I nearly drowned
And my own mother
So responded:
Don’t come in here
With those dirty clothes.
I just cleaned the floor,
And don’t come home
Like that again;
Don’t get drowned no more.


Saturday, March 27, 1999


Take that!
You dirty rat!
Famous line
To rhyme.


Bishop Lund,
With whom I served,
In 1944,
That Italian prisoners
Had rats
To greet them
On our lovely shore.


He was an
Agricultural agent,
This bishop friend,
Who lived in Colorado.
He looked for rats,
And found them in,
Every crook
And shadow.


He dropped cyanide
In their holes
And out they came
A runnin’.
The prisoners
Hit them with long sticks
And sent the creatures


The prisoners
Ran and skipped
And jumped,
And every living rat
They thumped.
One squished
A creature
With a rock.
They ran,
They hit,
They wouldn’t stop.


They ran
And yelled
And swung
With glee.
We’ll kill


And when they
Saw the setting sun,
They said,
This is
The end of fun.
But come back
Cyanide man.
Bring those pills
And bring a gun.
There are more rats
To kill, they must not flee.
And you can see,
It brings us glee.


So back he came,
More than once,
To watch the Italians
Whop and thump,
To see
Them run,
And thump,
And fun.


So they killed rats,
And loved the sport.
To forget their homes,
And wives and children.
Until the war
Came to an end,
So they could go home
And live again.


That’s what we do
In our daily lives.
We thump the rats
So we’ll survive.
The rats are Satan,
Who hates us all.
Our home is heaven,
Where Father dwells.


 Stagecoach Hit
(Monday, March 15, 1999)


The stage rolled down
The desert trail,
Bouncing, swaying, stirring up
The red dust–going pell-mell.
The driver was
“Big-handed” Mike,
A bull of a man
Who people didn’t like.


The man riding shotgun,
Was “Quick” Willy Fife
Who preferred his Winchester
Or a good Bowie knife.


And inside the carriage
Was “Fast-Fingers” Harry,
A gambler of note,
A cheater. Be wary!


And he sat across
From Madame Jan Hurst,
Her back to the horses,
A Derringer in her purse.
And next to her,
Sat teenage Fanny Holden,
Twas her first trip west,
Where she thought all was golden.


Yes, there was one more guy,
Who sat in the back,
Been shooting at rabbits,
That fled from the track.


The horses were tired,
Fifty miles to go,
The wheel brake had broken,
They had to go slow.


And Hell’s Canyon
Was scary,
With the Injuns and all,
And that’s where big Mike took his big fall.


A Navajo arrow
Pierced his chest.
He fell from the stage
Away from the rest.
Fanny looked out the window,
Let out a big scream,
And that’s when Willy fired,
Again and again.


And gambler Harry
Got an arrow in the neck,
And the rabbit-shootin’ man,
Began to attack.


He fired from one side
And then from the other,
And the Injuns were falling
On top of each other.


Madame Hurst
Took her pea-shooter
And fired it too.
But an Injun laughed at her little do.
Fanny said, “Give me that thing,”
And she fired a round
As the carriage did swing,
And an Injun fell to the ground.


And the Injun’s did parish,
But the ones that did run,
And Willy reined up,
Reloaded his gun.


But the Injuns were gone,
He said, “That’s some shootin’.”
And the rabbit man said,
“You bet your tootin'”


But Willy looked at him
And said, “You don’t know who.
Fanny shot the chief,
That wasn’t you.”


And Rabbit Man said,
“I should get some credit,”
But Madame Hurst said,
“You’re not goin’ to get it.”


And Fanny blew
The smoke from the barrel,
And said, “Thank you Wild Bill,
I know you’re the real hero.”


So the stage rolled on
Into the night,
And Fanny hugged Wild Bill
As if it were right.


And the last I heard,
One way or the other,
Fanny and Wild Bill
Are still ridin’ together.


If you want to learn more,
Then look at my oil
Of that fast-movin’ stage
Goin’ pell-mell.


 The Banker’s Son
Monday, March 29, 1999


He spurred his horse,
The banker’s son,
His daddy
Died that day
When the bank was robbed his dad was shot
And the robbers rode away.


Their horses were lightnin’ fast,
With bottom, they were full.
Ugly Jo looked back and said,
Ride you bunglin’ fools.


They spurred their horses
All the more,
Leavin’ the banker’s son in the dust,
But then they stopped
To rest the stock,
That’s when the fun began.


The banker’s son rode up and said–
They were drinkin’ whiskey then–
Lay down your guns, you’re goin’ to hang
When I get you back to town.


Fat Charlie laughed,
A banker’s son
Is goin’ to bring us in?
He drew his colt,
The rich kid shot,
He did Fat Charlie in.


Slim Willy said,
Did you see that,
The kid looks pretty good,
But Fat Charlie was slow,
Banker boy,
I wouldn’t try that again.


You killed my pa,
You filthy crew.
You shot him and he’s dead.
Slim Willy said,
Twas Charlie, son,
And then he poured out lead.


The banker’s kid
Rolled in the dirt,
But then he came up shootin’.
Slim Willy fell
And ate some dirt,
The banker’s son was swellin’.


Pock-faced Pete
Looked at the two dead oafs,
And said,
That was some shootin’.
But Charlie and Willy weren’t all that fast,
To prove it, I’m a willin’.


The banker’s boy
Spit in the dirt,
Which formed a little ball.
I’m goin’ to shoot again,
He said,
And you are bound to fall.


So Pete said,
Okay, we’re comin’ in
To let the court decide,
But instead he drew his six-gun,
The boy fired twice,
Pete landed on his side.


The boy blew smoke
From the barrel,
There were two more
There to kill.
One was Ugly Joe,
The other, Angry Bill.


Bill said, Now you little runt,
I gettin’ mad as hell,
Not that you shot those ugly bruits,
That my pockets will fill,
But I ain’t cowin’ down.
You’re goin’ down to hell.


The boy said,
You don’t learn fast,
Do you Angry Bill?
He drew and shot,
Not once, but twice,
Bill rolled down the hill.


Ugly Joe
Looked at the men
All layin’ on the ground.
He said, My God,
That was some shootin’!
You’re the fastest gun around.


Now tell me son,
Before I die,
How you learned to shoot.
I saw you tellerin’,
In the bank,
For gun’s you had no root.


The boy looked down,
And said these word,
My dad was just like you.
He went to jail
And paid the price
And he taught me how to shoot.


Ugly Joe kicked a rock and said,
What were his name, my son?
The boy said, the Sierra Kid,
Ugly Joe pulled his gun,


The boy left those parts,
Never to be seen again,
They never found the loot at all,
Just those five dead men.
 The Punch


The bully came running after me,
Down the sidewalk on a rainy day.
I jumped a puddle
And waited there
And smashed his nose
While he was in the air.


His prison-guard dad
Was mad at me,
But he was two grades
Ahead of me.
(He’d been held back too!)
So I was free.


Good friends after that!
 The Square Boat Which Wouldn’t Float
Saturday, April 19, 1999


Had the idea:
A boat on the Jordan to float.
So Dick and Larry
And all the big guys
Built a boat
Before our eyes.
It was shaped
Like a coffin.
It had square sides
And a flat bottom.


They nailed
And tarred;
It weighed a ton.
It took forever
To get it to the river
Where we could have some fun.


Well, every kid in town
Watched the show.
We pushed the boat in the water
To see if it would go.
Larry was in the middle
And Dick was in the stern.
Would the thing float or not?
That we would soon learn.


They paddled it out into the middle
Of that muddy Jordan River.
At first things looked pretty good.
It was quite a flivver.
Then slowly,
Did we see–
Right before our eyes–
That Aaron and the boys would be swimming;
It was the boat’s demise.


Yes, it sank like that concrete ship
That lay’s on Cape May’s shore.
That bungling concrete vessel
Made just for the war.
And just before
Abandon Ship!
There was our little war
Because there was a good supply of mud
On good Old Jordan’s shore.


So that began the mud fight
That lasted quite a while,
And Aaron and the others were pasted
Until their ship did sink.
They were covered with mud from head to foot
Until they met the brink.


So all the work
On that great boat
Was lost in just a wink.
It sank so fast,
From bow to mast,
I could hardly blink.


I miss those days
Of carefree youth,
Of boats, and planes,
And cars.
And then the boys
All left home
To fight in a
Real war.


Orville and Virgil
Never came home.
They were not alone.
But the boat builders
Thank God for that.
Years later
They did come home.


Sunday, March 21, 1999


Another great word,
From a book of lit,
My pinky done found.
They? What a pick!


First I think of aliens:
Tiny pink men
With purple lips,
And horseradish eyes,
And swivel hips.
They knock on your door
At two in the morning
And pee on your bare feet
Without any warning.
Which They think
Is all very funny,
Those childish wimps,
They, live on wild honey.


Last week I got my mower
And was cutting the grass.
I mowed down six Theymen
As quick as a flash.
Since that time
They have really got nasty.
They put sawdust
In my freshly baked pasty,
Which made me so mad,
That I spit on the floor
And drowned three Theymen,
To my regret evermore.


I was loading my groceries
The other day
When out came those wimps,
The fun-loving They.
The one, named Fondeek,
With the cotton-ball stare.
Grabbed a bottle of Glue
And plastered my hair.
Then Sordock coated the seat
Of my truck.
I not looking,
Sat down and got stuck.


In fact,
From the seat of my truck.


And Wednesday, last,
At the county fair,
I saw the Theymen,
Who were visiting there.
The one called, Yorvet,
A female of sorts,
Carried an umbrella,
And wore cut-off shorts.


Bigligny was there,
A squat little dwarf,
With salmon-loaf eyes,
And enormous black warts.


And so was Pinlupe,
The worst of the band,
Who plastered my truck
With strawberry jam.


They pestered the kids,
They harassed their mommies,
By popping balloons,
And swearing like carnies.
I felt so embarrassed,
To see their sad plight,
I stomped on three Theymen;
The others took flight.


So I’m the enemy
Of those wee-witted scoundrels,
Those tiny menaces
Of my neighborhood,
And I’d kill them all.
That is, if I could.


But they breed like bunnies,
Ten Beeps at a time,
With tiny green diapers,
They hang on the line.
And if you listen
In the quiet of the night,
You can hear the Beeps
Giggling, to their mother’s delight.


Well, the moving van’s
I’m ready to go.
And I would if I could
Put my foot to the floor.
But I can’t,
I’m stuck,
To the seat


Oh! I see the Beebs coming,
You all better duck!



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