Dumb Poem Collection - # 198 through # 207

Here I sit at this cold and relentless keyboard, all sorts of letters and strange symbols scattered all over the thing, nice hot cup of coffee off to one side. Even while the keyboard glares at me, that coffee is smiling away at me. Guess which of the two is of greater interest to ...

Oh, knock it off, Gus. Just get to work.

So here are ten more of these little "Dumb Poems." Probably about now there will be enough new ones inside this computer thing to make possible a sequel to the first eBook of 101 of the things. I will consult with some mathematically-inclined statistical wizards after a while and see where things stand as to sufficiency of content (as opposed to quality).

Lately I have been in a limericks sort of mood (spell that l-a-z-y), and so I intend for the lot of them here to all be 5-liners – except for # 207. That last one is going to be a little longer and, I hope, a piece understandable to all who write in some language of their choosing (or maybe because it is the one they know).

Thinking first of that nice hot coffee sitting by my side –

# 198– My old bean boiler

I’ve an old coffeepot that you should not see.
Why, there’s stuff down inside that was not meant to be.
Whenever I stick its worn plug in the wall,
that pot grinds and it groans. It just has a real ball,
making strange stuff plus coffee for me.

# 199 – All Mexico is burning

Jalapenos sure are hot.
Both large or small, they burn a lot,
but, whenever they are boiled
in vinegar, then oiled,
they really hit the spot.

# 200 – Mickey Mouse lived there, too

Los Angeles, a funny city,
really strange, evokes our pity.
With boys (?) unsure,
some girls (?) impure,
and other things not in this ditty.

# 201 – Did that really come first?

Our hen laid an egg on the roof.
She did it one day as a spoof.
In the sun it got hot –
went completely to pot.
Soon our rooster and hen were aloof.

# 202 - Money talks

Dollars are scarce in the Bronx.
One buck goes for two pounds of onyx.
Money traders now dare
to be most unfair,
cheating folks with computer mnemonics.

# 203 – Restaurant manager training school

Daniel’s learning how to cook,
by practice, with help from a book
and machines with their noise on.
Dan’s stuff tastes like poison.
Nose closed, it can scarcely be took.

# 204 – Kwitcherbellyachin’

One green mustard,
half a bustard -
pour on salt.
Do not fault.
It’s not custard.

# 205 – The pencil and the keyboard

As writers know, all pencils go

to pieces as their words do flow,

but keyboards always keep on clicking

as long as there is no key sticking.

Those are the facts. That's how things go.

# 206 - Shore do ‘preciate it, too

Gracias, merci, danke sehr.
You’ve read my stuff with real good care.
Sure, your legs I’ve pulled,
and your minds I’ve dulled,
But you have my thanks – so there!

# 207 – The game writers play with editors

Oh editor, oh editor,
Why must you so reject me?
I write my stuff to sell to you.
You and your staff eject me.

It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair.
My stuff to me’s my baby.
Back in my next mail, here it comes
without your hinting, "maybe."

I understand. I understand
the burdens that beset you.
You have to send back lots of stuff.
If not, the breadlines get you.

You grow so hard, so very hard.
Each day you bite the bullet,
so, even though mine’s real good stuff,
you tell your staff to pull it.

How I’d love, oh how I’d love
to get in one edition
and save the postman half his work.
Rejection’s plain perdition.

So – send a check, please send a check
to me while you think of it.
Yes – in return, I’ll mail more stuff
once that I know you love it.