A Problem With Living Too Long

A godlier man, there never lived -
My dear old Uncle Fred,
And throngs should fill the funeral home
When word comes that he's dead.

For the numbers at the funeral home
Are a measure of one's worth;
The sum of all the lives one's touched
While here upon the earth.

But few will visit the funeral home
When my Uncle passes on,
For he's lived so long that those he's touched
Are already dead and gone.

poem by Lone Dog
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The Way It Is

September of 1921.
Little George, sleeping peacefully in his crib,
Is awakened and fed.
Diapers are checked.
Shoes are tied.
A sweater is slipped on his arms
And partially buttoned.
Now, a buggy appears and
Little George is transported outside
To bask in the autumn sunshine.

September of 2008.
George, now 87 and sleeping peacefully
In a long term care facility,
Is awakened and fed.
Diapers are checked.
Shoes are tied.
A sweater is slipped on his arms
And partially buttoned.
Now, a wheelchair appears and

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poem by Lone Dog
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The Thing That's Wrong With Christmas

The thing that's wrong with Christmas is
It's based on get not give.
And most who give but do not get
React with expletives.

There are a few who give and yet
Want nothing in return.
But they're a breed so rare that they've
A place in Glory earned.

The stores proclaim that Christmas is
'The giving time of year',
For when we give, the stores all get,
Then grin from ear to ear.

Their Christmas ads so feed our greed
And further twist our minds,
That most believe, by owning things,
That happiness we'll find.

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poem by Lone Dog
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Education Celebration

(An 'Education Week' Rap)

Education, education;
There's nothing quite like education!
It gives you hope and lets you cope
And offers great remuneration.

Education, education;
The path to many a great vacation;
A fancy car and caviar;
A life of fun and relaxation.

Education, education;
Provides a firm and strong foundation
For better lives improved by drive,
By effort and by motivation.

Education, education;
Sing aloud in exultation!
And when you pass that final class

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poem by Lone Dog
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A Man of Worth

Dear Uncle Fred's the type of man
Who to his neighbours gives a hand.
A man who would not deal in lies,
Who never could a soul despise.

An honest man and one so kind
That he should be the first in line
To proudly pass through portal's great,
When trumpets blow at Peter's Gate.

When God decides that Fred should die,
Then, in the parlour where he lies,
His friends will flock to bid farewell
To one who lived his life so well.

But when it's time for me to go,
And in a wooden box I'm stowed,
The visitors will be but few
Who come to say a fond adieu.

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poem by Lone Dog
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