Poet/bum

There's a thin line between the poet and the bum,
Usually both are broke,
In boxing circles, there's the bum of the month,
And like the poet, considered a joke.

For instance, a poet has to fight for respect,
Like any boxer risking his neck,
The poet fights with words he understands,
The boxer fights with his hands.

Neither fighter can afford to be afraid,
Taking a hit from a move delayed,
Clobbered by critics, or clobbered in the ring,
Can sting.

As remote as it may sound,
They both have to survive the round,
Neither wants to remain the tramp,
Both would choose to be the champ.

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poem by Richard Jarboe
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Keep the Replacement Refs, They're Great

Keep the replacement refs; they're great,
These guys reveal the intelligence of NFL
Over time they illustrate,
The disarray only time could tell.

Medical science in the NFL
Use terms like hum dinger,
Or this guy's bit by the injury bug,
And that guy's suffered a stinger.

Runners in the game they say run north and south,
Yet on screen they move east and west,
That's if you think the tv's a map,
Otherwise direction is anybody's guess.

And I love it when they use the phrase 'mano on mano,
As if mano is Spanish for man,
They don't know the meaning of mano;
They don't know mano is Spanish for hand.

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poem by Richard Jarboe
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Everybody is Getting Out of Town

Population getting out of town,
Population wearing running shoes,
Population wondering which road to choose,
Everybody's getting out of town.

They all want to leave; they would if they could,
But right now the road ain't no good,
If you ain't crying, you might as well laugh,
While you're trying to get out of town.

Power plant, glowing in the dark,
Nobody sure what set off the spark,
They say the island is sinking fast,
Everybody's getting out of town.

Population looking for a sign,
Whose fault is it, living on the fault line,
Better do better if there IS a next time,
But for now, just get out of town.

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poem by Richard Jarboe
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Who Was She?

They say she must have been no good,
She must have been a whore,
Or part of a drug gang,
Who she was working for.

No one knows who killed her,
They're all too scared to ask,
No ID, and the guy who shot her,
Was wearing a skeleton mask.

Her lifeless body on the ground,
Took a bullet to the face,
The fact she was shot in the plaza,
Only adds to the disgrace.

No journalist will report WHY she died,
Too afraid to write that line,
The police report simply lied,
Said she lived a life of crime.

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poem by Richard Jarboe
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More Fun Than A Barrel Of Monkeys

there are multiple questions pertaining to the concept,
'more fun than a barrel of monkeys.'

how big is the barrel?
how many monkeys are we talking about?
how big are the monkeys? Are we talking spider monkeys, chimps, baboons or what?
Are the monkeys old or young and where's the barrel, inside or outside?

If you leave the monkeys in the barrel, you got a problem:
they'll die in their own excrement,
if you lift the lid and let them out,
they might kill you.

a monkey can rip out your eyes, is that fun?
monkeys, leaping and running around the house, can do a lot of damage, is that fun?
monkeys are dirty, so... what exactly do you consider fun?
what's it going to be like trying to get the monkeys back in the barrel?
would that be fun?

what would the neighbors think of you, if you released the monkeys into their yards?

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poem by Richard Jarboe
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Biggest Bigamist

To dream the impossible dream,
Keep your distance, if you know what I mean,
To have multiple Queens wearing multiple crowns,
Your multiple wives need multiple towns.

I love my wives, they love me too,
But they don't know some things that I do,
I have a sweet tooth, I think women are wine,
So to get my sugar, I'm the marrying kind.

I got a wife in Alabama, her father's a baker,
I got one in Ohio, she don't know I'm a faker,
I got one in Hawaii, we have a family of three,
She has no clue what's going on with me.

I got one in Minnesota, we live on a lake,
I got one in Nevada, who don't know I'm a fake,
I got one in Utah, we both love to ski,
She reminds me of my wife in Mississippi.

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poem by Richard Jarboe
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Where Are You Now?

For those of you who follow the King,
Tell me, where are you now?
For those of you who follow the Pope,
Tell me, where are you now?

For those of you who followed the Beatles,
Tell me, where are you now?
For those of you who followed the flag,
Tell me, where are you now?

Be it Frank Zappa, or Andy Warhol,
Tell me, where are you now?
Be it the Koran, be it the Bible
Tell me where are you now?

Be it Mein Kampf, the Communist Manifesto,
Tell me where are you now?
The Bill of Rights with all the fights,
Tell me, where are you now?

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poem by Richard Jarboe
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That's What Makes America Cool, You Know?

With apology to Bruce Willis...

we don't wrap our women up in burkas,
we like bikinis on the beach,
we invented hula hoops and frisbees,
we tolerate what anyone may preach,
we got chicken in every pot,
cars in every parking lot,
that's what makes America cool, you know?

we can only smoke cigarettes on the street,
we strap our babies down in a car seat,
if you come here you will learn,
we're cautious at every turn,
every chick and dude knows all about health food,
we play rock and roll with attitude,
that's what makes America cool, you know?

for the most part we win the wars we fight,
for the most part we know wrong from right,

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poem by Richard Jarboe
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Dead Guy Stickers

In the USA,
They want to put dead guy pictures on cigarette packs.
With that brilliant logic in mind, I say put dead guy stickers on:
car windshields(dead guys in wrecks)
pistol and rifle handles (dead guys shot)
marriage licenses (dead spouses)
hamburger and hot dog wrappers (dead fat guys)
pies, cakes (more dead fat guys)
bathroom doors (thousands of dead guys in bathrooms every year)
bicycles (road kill dead guys)
fire places (burnt dead guys)
swimming pools (drown dead guys)
every electrical outlet (fried dead guys)
air plane tickets (dead passenger guys)
the beach (shark bit dead guys)
cities (shot dead guys)
air (blue dead guys)
fish (poisoned dead guys)
motorcycles (more road kill dead guys)
scarfs (strangled dead guys)

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poem by Richard Jarboe
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