Keystone State of mind- song parody
Parody of New York State of mind
Some folks though we’d get away
Take a Holiday from the neighborhood
Hop a Flight out to Disneyland
Play the series in the Angel’s hood
But I’m stuck here in traffic
Out on Route I- 95
I’m in a Keystone state of mind
We’ve seen all those Dodgers
Leave in their 25 separate Limousines
Froze our ass in the Rockies
Beating a better team
Now you know who we’re facing
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Reign of Tara
Of all the souls that I have known
while walking around in flesh and bone,
hers was the sweetest and the best,
especially when seen undressed.
she had been scalded while she was young
and even now she bears the scar.
An accident, her mother said.
I wondered then, I wonder now.
I'm damaged goods, she first confessed
When first I sought to kiss those breasts.
Hesitantly, her shirt undone.
I sought her nipples with my tongue.
Thereafter, lovers of a sort
inseparable, with love our sport.
Her little dog thought I was great
Her mother, though, viewed me with hate.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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the Seated Dollar
(Murder of Wild Bill Hitchcock,08/02/76)
He tossed it down upon the bar,
careless of its worth and weight.
To ease his thirst required Whiskey
Then he’d find a woman for a “date”.
Saddle weary and in pain
From the Long and Dusty trail
Bill had rode hard to reach Cheyenne
to rest his boot on this bar rail.
His fate that day did not include
A decent bath or indecent touch-
The Men he gambled with grew angry
His fast gun hand –not fast enough
Someone grabbed that silver dollar
Not bothering to check the date.
The body, whitened with death’s pallor, .
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Bastogne
The longest darkness of the year
comes as Christmas is drawing near.
We dug and cursed the frozen ground
The snow was deep, more coming down.
We are surrounded and outgunned.
We’re short of food and winter gear.
Medicines are running out
and we have scores of wounded here.
I do believe my feet are frozen
I can no longer feel my toes.
But still I will not leave the line
What I ‘d give for a cuppa joe.
The sounds of Panzers in the wind-
Shouts heard in a guttural tongue-
We brace for yet one more attack
and vow we won’t be overrun.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Guy on the horns of a dilemma
I greet you in the morning
with a flute of dry Champagne.
I thought we drank it all last night-
My headache thinks the same.
You looks at me with sparkling eyes
And purr at my caresses
I know that You could be the one
But I don’t know what your name is.
I know it’s not Delores
That was Seinfeld’s girl du jour
I think I can rule our Angel
from your words and deeds impure.
For the moment I can temporize
With sweetheart, murmured low
But endearments are no substitute
Her name I need to know.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Golgotha at Auschwitz
Golgotha at Auschwitz
Perhaps they had tried to escape,
or else done some petty crime.
These three would not be gassed or shot-
The rope would serve just fine.
Two men, one boy with nooses fixed-
condemned but never tried.
The nooses tightened on their necks
as they kicked the air and died.
Except the boy, he was too light
He lingered when they died
“Where is God? ” one man muttered
“Where is He? ” others cried.
They made us all march past the place
Where those three in judgment fell
The boy in his slow agony
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Euphrion’s Son
On the Plain at Marathon
We stood in Darius’ way.
An outnumbered band of Athenians
who the Medians sought to slay.
They had first crushed the Ionians
Then put Eretria to the Torch.
Wherever Darius conquered
the bleeding earth was scorched.
Our Hoplites held the high Ground
and penned the Persians in.
For several days a stalemate reigned.
Neither side could win.
But when the Persians spit their force
and sailed on a friendly tide.
Our hand was forced
there was but one course
if Athens was not to die.
Our Phalanx moved against each wing
of the Median horde.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Fight like a Girl
Before he spoke, I think I knew,
but did not dare to say its name.
The swollen lymph node was a clue
My self exam told much the same.
Twenty eight and newly wed-
What will my husband say and do?
I face the loss of both my breasts.
Will he leave me? Are we through?
When I am ripped apart by knife
for my double mastectomy.
Will I no longer be his wife?
Will he no more lie close to me?
Where once I had such golden hair
A bright bandanna I will wear.
I’ve put my trust in my Physician
To chart the course and gain remission
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Long Goodbye
The thing that killed her has a name
It formed the plaque that scarred her brain.
She embarked upon that one way trip
where names elude and memories slip
This disease is most unkind
It slows the step and clouds the mind
Her daughter daily watched her fade
into a lemure, a ghostly shade.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Homecoming
His flight was due in late that night
So to the base she came.
The guard gave her admission-
she was on his list of names.
The group gathered in Reception
was, mostly, silent and restrained.
There were mothers with small babies,
Older couples, frail and pained..
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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