Michael Crichton
Michael Crichton would be dismayed
to read about his pirate days.
Poor Michael, there is worse in store.
They plan to publish at least one more.
When living, Michael published much
and proved to have the Midas touch.
No matter, Michael, that you’re gone
Your bibliography still goes on.
When Authors pay the boatman’s fee
Their fans crave more, quite naturally.
No Shakespeare lover could refuse
To give “Cardenio” rave reviews.
And when Jim Croce breathed no more
He “sang” on for a decade more.
But stuff that Authors didn’t publish
could prove to be unworthy rubbish.
(And some that sees the light of day
Might have been better hid away)
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Camino De Baldosas AmarillasCamino De Baldosas Amarillas
Cuando Dorothy recorrió los caminos de Oz
Sus compañeros eran deficientes:
Uno carecía de valor,
Uno carecía de cerebro,
Uno de ellos era cruel, pero
Ax competente.
Ella era una inmigrante ilegal,
de Kansas, de todos los
lugares!
Imagínate, cuando ella y
Toto Cham-
la mirada en los rostros de las personas.
Sin embargo eso fue hace setenta años.,
En otro lugar y tiempo
Justo antes de ir a la guerra
contra el mal personificado.
Si Dorothy, hoy en día, se presentó
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Dick Cheney (won’t you please go home)
Won't you go home, Dick Cheney, won't you go home
Don’t talk the whole term long
You started with a surplus, but now its spent
Leave poor Barrack alone
Remember that water boarding
That you approved- saying torture isn’t wrong
Now our country’s in the tank and it’s you we have to thank
Dick Cheney, won't you please go home
Won't you go home, Dick Cheney, won't you go home
Don’t talk the whole term long
You started with a surplus, but now it’s spent
On your “forever” wars
Remember that last Election
We turned you out -and made you take the idiot back home
You were good for Halliburton but the rest of us are hurting
Dick Cheney won’t you please go home
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Tower of Siloam
There was a tower at Siloam
Joined with mud and built of stone
That mounted up toward the sky
flaws hidden from the naked eye.
.
The tower at Siloam fell-
taking eighteen lives to Hell.
It may have been three days of rain
That loosened joints and failed to drain
Rabbi was at Bethany
when word spread of this tragedy.
The prevailing view you may find odd:
The eighteen must have angered God.
Teacher did not share that view
that private sins had caused their fate.
They were no worse or better than
Those living still who stewed in hate.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Mister He will do
Pretty girls can always get men,
But a girl won’t forever be pretty.
When your breasts, now so perky and lovely,
Heed gravity’s call it’s a pity.
For now you are playing the field,
and you and your Dates rule the City-
When the game is no longer afoot
You’ll wind up at home with your Kitty.
So while you look to find Mister Right
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Bad Santa
Stuck in a chimney
high above ground
A burglar called out
He couldn't go up nor down.
He'd stolen some money
and pilfered some clothes.
then, by way of egress,
up the chimney he rose.
But that move only works
with a suit of red Clothes
on one night a year
if you finger your nose.
He got stuck half way up
and he couldn't get down.
The fire Department
had to rescue this clown.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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COLLEVILLE SUR MER (D Day + 50)
The day is hot, no hint of a breeze
As I kneel down on ancient knees
At the grave of you, most brave,
who died in Omaha’s first wave.
Our mother never did recover
from losing you. Like many mothers.
she, ever after, hid the scar.
Poor recompense is a gold star.
Rows of crosses on the plain
Each bears a date, a rank, a name.
Lives ended by the chance of war.
None will see their home once more.
Was your sacrifice in vain?
One tyrant fell, but more remain
The Reich that fell now better known
as the common market Euro zone.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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More fun with the T.S.A.
You say that you must check my thighs
before I’ll be allowed to fly.
Unreasonable search is one thing, friend
Bu this random groping has to end!
Determined evil has its ways.
Contraband will still get by-
Viewing tourists in the nude
serves just to entertain you guys..
Babes in Burkas, they can fly.
We wouldn’t want to profile them.
Instead harass two aging nuns-
“Bend over, cough, and say Amen.”
Don’t touch my junk, hands off! I say.
Or act in a more subtle way.
Buy me dinner and a drink
You might get lucky, I said with a wink.
You think at least they’d warm their hands
Before each colonoscopy.
Is this part of Obama care?
Low cost Guynocology?
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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J. Wellington Wimpy: Icon of our age
Wimpy, Popeye’s sometime pal,
is the icon of our age.
No, he isn’t handsome
nor especially that brave.
He set the pattern for our lives
as we grew old and gray.
We’ll gladly pay you Tuesday
for a hamburger today.
Our deficits grew larger
than they ever had before.
We lusted after gizmos
produced upon a foreign shore
And should they ever ask out loud
how we would ever pay-
We’d said we’ll pay you Tuesday
for this I Pad bought today.
Who knew, as jobs departed,
what the future held in store?
We borrowed our homes value,
then we borrowed yet some more.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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An Inconvenient Sleet
I hear the scrape of steel on concrete
as neighbors struggle with the cold and wet.
General Winter and his storm troops
aren’t finished with us yet.
If we get these cars unburied
the icy roads still are a threat
People shivering at the bus stop
believe mass transit their best bet.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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