If in the world’s largest pig pen
the assignment you receive is
to install a country mile of fine tile,
pay no mind if the farmer’s blind
grab a bucket, trowel, and towel
and until that floor’s all in
stay snout to the grout.
UPDATED 10/28/17 with a graphic version:
Twelve letters say it:
Why Not The Egg?
Up there so high
without even one leg.
Why Not The Egg?
It isn’t a joke:
It just might contain
Planet Earth’s biggest yolk,
Or hard boiled folk,
Or a shell hard as oak
Or be filled to the brim
With Poached Cherry Coke.
The Egg is no yoke
that saddles its city,
As giant Egg buildings go
it’s downright pretty
Making the skyline
so very fine
It’s an Egg to admire,
not on which to dine.
The scramble to see it
does not ever stop,
Not its round belly bottom
or skyward flat top.
All that and more
is why it’s no bull
That Egg lovers glasses
are always half full.
Shouting, “Why Not The Egg?”
Those twelve little letters
For Egg-love reminders
no Dozen is better.
SUI EGGENERIS: The Egg – Albany, NY
Christmas night rain
Was causing trepidation
For reindeer who worked
Through precipitation.
There were no good galoshes
To cover a hoof
And also give traction
To walk on a roof.
A red nosed windshield wiper
Had not been invented
A slicker for antlers
Nowhere could be rented.
So wet Christmas Eves
Rudolph would fear
Along with his team
Until finally one year,
They became so distracted
Checking the weather
Their boss caught wind of
His team’s ruffled feathers.
Mrs. Claus heard and said,
“Let me ring a friend.
I bet once and for all
Their concerns we can end.”
A couple weeks later,
It was early December,
A large package arrived addressed
KRINGLE TEAM MEMBERS.
As he opened it Saint Nick whispered,
“What have we got here …
‘SAINT ELLA UMBRELLA’S
REINDEER RAIN GEAR’?!?”
“Just in time,” said Mrs. Claus
walking in, “it’s arrived.
Ella said she could help.
I knew that was no jive.”
The Reindeer Rain Gear
In the box was a boon,
With it on Santa’s team
Hoped they’d face a monsoon:
Water tight goggles,
Impervious slickers,
Treaded hoof booties,
Fur sealing knickers,
All there among Saint Ella
Umbrella’s tricks,
The Reindeer Rain Gear
For a wet Christmas fix,
Thanks to Mrs. Claus
And the power of friends,
Since that year the reindeer
Viewed rain through a new lens.
There once was a bird
who wanted to be
any bird
but the one
that he was:
an ostrich named Stanley.
Sometimes he’d act like
the macaw
(you’d guffaw)
or a chick
(it was sick)
bird of prey
(yech…no way!)
Even more than those acts
that Stan couldn’t master
other tries were plain bad,
no worse,
a disaster:
His strut recalled peacocks
less than it did newts,
his night hunting efforts
made every owl hoot.
And when he carried on
like some bird he wasn’t
the Small Stan inside him ‘tsked,
“Big Stan you mustn’t.
“You’re an ostrich,
Be proud if your head’s in the ground!
Don’t clown cluck around
like The Birdbrain of Town!”
Some messages
the first time
are loud and clear,
while others
don’t arrive
for some reason
for years …
So it was one day it hit Stan
And he could see,
“What I really know how to be best
is me.
Not them
or they
or he
or she.
The feathers of others don’t fit on my frame
And trying to force them has made me look lame.”
So Stan said to himself,
“Let’s forever agree
For you to be you
And me to be me.”
From then till forever
Stanley didn’t mince,
Nor did that old ostrich
once lack confidence.
At one time about baseball
There was little I didn’t know
From Tinker to Evers to Chance
To Cano.
But that knowledge has slipped
As I’ve watched the game less
Which I was ok with
‘Till my ignorance caused a mess:
One night I awoke
Suddenly from a crash
That sounded like a baseball
Coming through my window sash.
I squinted to gather
What it really was I saw
Sitting there resembling
A fluffy bear paw.
Sensing my fear it
Spoke first calling, “Child,
You need worry not
For my manner is mild.
At least to you it will be
For you’ve wronged me not.”
“Who are you?” I quaked.
“If we’ve met … I’ve forgot.”
“Some call me ‘Donnie Lipsmack’”
it laughed, “when I’m brash.
But most use my full name:
The Ghost of Don Mattingly’s Mustache.”
Hearing that I sat up and
Gave my eyes a wipe.
Sure enough the ‘stache had on
Number 23 in pinstripes.
Next I learned this apparition
Visiting that night
Had come on a mission
To make an old wrong right.
“I’ve come back,” said the Ghost,
“To settle a score
With the Ghost of Keith Hernandez’s Mustache,
That so-called hirsute legend of yore.
“Long ago we competed
For all the damsels fairest,
Who loved us most because
Our mustaches were the rarest.
And though many eyes then
Stuck to my upper lip
Hernandez’s was always
Considered more hip.”
“But I’m confused, Ghost,
Why come to see me?”
He motioned to the Keith poster up on my wall.
“‘Cause I thought you’d know where that ghost might be.”
“All I know, Ghost
Is Keith’s real mustache lives on.”
And the color drained from him.
“You’re telling me that thing isn’t gone?”
“Not last that I checked,
Though it’s been a while.”
“I was afraid of this,” he said,
through an upside down smile.
“I couldn’t beat it on Earth
and it won’t join me in the Sky.
The odds, for eternity,
That lip hair will defy.”
The good mood he’d arrived with
Had vanished in a flash.
Then Don’s whiskers’ specter
Began to sound rash.
“I’ll be second forever.
Know what that is? Lame!
Can I go on? How?!?
There’s no way!” he exclaimed.
“We should look it up, Ghost,
There’s a chance I’m not right.”
“M’boy,” he said, “I’m certain
that you’re too polite.
But there is no need
To go on pretending
the reign of Keith Hernandez’s mustache
Will have an ending.”
Like a wind-starved kite
With body language bad,
The Ghost of Don Mattingly’s Mustache
Was sad.
Slinking back to the window
At the spot he’d broken in,
The Ghost whimpered,
“Send my people a bill for the glass here, eh, cousin?”
Then like that: he jumped,
And I was by myself again.
When I heard a new voice say,
“Ol’ Lipsmack, aw hell, he was a great friend.”
Now with my blankets
Thrown over my head
I peeked at the Keith poster
Across from my bed
And saw there popping off
The image on the paper
Hernandez’s mustache,
But translucent, like a vapor.
“But how could you too
Be a ghost,” I inquired.
“When the real Keith’s real mustache
Has not yet expired?”
“Au contraire, my good friend,”
he said, “That’s not true.
Nowadays Keith’s as clean shaven
As the Mets wear orange and blue.
Google Image it if
You need confirmation,
Only now in this Ghostly form
Is the Hernanstache a sensation.”
“Well that means,” I said,
“Mattingly’s mustache’s ghost
Based on my bad info
Just made himself toast.”
“Oh don’t sweat it, pal,”
Keith’s ‘stache Ghost assured me
Things will work out fine for him.
Always do for a Yankee.”
“How can you be sure?
They’re not all in baseball heaven.”
Keith’s Mustache Ghost laughed:
“Because at title counting time,
they have 27.”
It was a good point,
And it was his last.
After that without more visitors
that haunted night passed.
Sometimes still I feel bad
Lipsmack’s Ghost met his Gillette,
Though I bet he’d choose death
Over life as a Met.
SANS ‘STACHE – Keith Hernandez today, with a clean upper lip. If only the Lapsed Mets Fan had known, perhaps the Ghost of Don Mattingly’s Mustache could have been saved. (Photo – Gary Gershoff)The Museum had
a wooly mammoth
a subway car
a Mohawk family
a giant lobby
a giant staircase
a giant saw
a tiny Grand Central,
old firetrucks,
old stock exchanges,
old dead moths and fish,
and real life looking dinosaurs.
.
.
.
LET’S GO BACK!
Tweed Typewriter 