Ditties, Poems, Lyrics, and thoughts

Scroll down or search for: Hot flash, In the days of ’69, King of the cloud, The Perfect Country Song in Reverse, more to come!

Hot Flash

T’was the night before the day, and all within the condo nestled.

Our cat lay, on my wife’s legs settled.

The feline dreamed of play; visions of mice startled.

“Throw a blanket my way.” I exclaimed, while reading a love story gay, a round of whiskey enjoyed.

“I’m hot, take these blankets away!” My wife shrieked.

Out of the melee, the cat soared.

Come in what may, the windows and doors flew opened.

The ceiling fan blew wind my way; blasted and frigid.

To survive against the fray; stocking hat, blanket, and mittens I donned.

Wishing for a hot ray, I snuggled deep in my warm lair protected.

The raging woman flays, to and fro: agitated.

Upstairs she strays; stomping above my head.

My breath blew white and away, as she returns and settles in her chair contented.

She glanced my way, “I’m cold and exhausted.”

I hoped for a warm tomorrow day, as I unwrapped my garments that defended.

The cat returned to her lap to stay, as doors and windows shuttered.

I emptied my glass as I turn and say, “Good night,” and take my book to my warm bed.

In the days of ’69

copyright protected

I’m an old stoner, livin’ up on the hill, left over from ’69.
They call me a relic from historical times; ‘buddy want to hear my rime?’
I wander around bar to bar dressed in my tie dye, 
and all the tourist disdain, and say, “There goes a hippie, from the sixties, singing for a dime.”
I remember a time of rebellion, a girl’s love free, and a brother cleaned tear gas from your eye.
Buy me a beer, and we can cheer, to us troubadours; young and bold, now so old, remembering our prime.
An asteroid said to destroy the world, the Haight empties, and Boulder beckons, ‘Hippie!’
Owsley comes to town, and the rats on the hill trip out; ‘Party time.’
Ron got shot in the foot, and Mark became a Narc. ‘Woodsie!’
Devon and her dog didn’t make it back. I repine.
The Whalen’s partied out at the grill, and Cindy J. danced. ‘Whirly.’
Sherry J and Jan Pearl wore flowers in their hair and looked divine.
And the Queen of the hill reigns there still. ‘Whoopie.’
From the days of ’69. 
Say, Mister, fill my beer, and I will make amends,
sad, but glad, to remember ol’ comrades, now my Facebook friends.
We all laugh, and cry out loud, as we grow so old, about the times, when we smoked the gold …
in the days of ’69.

King of the Cloud

Buses ferrying tech workers back home to San Francisco from jobs in Silicon Valley have become a visible component of the commute along Highway 101, as seen Wednesday, May 7, 2014. (Karl Mondon/Bay Area News Group)

King of the Cloud

Passwords for sale or rent, rooms to let, five thousand bits,

No stove, no pool, no pets, can’t smoke no cigarettes.

Ah, but, twelve hours of enterin’ codes,

Buys an eight by twelve studio room.

I’m a man of means by no means, King of the cloud.

Third busload, commute lane, destination, home, three hours away.

Stylish clothes and shoes,

I don’t get no reviews.

Ol’ porno’s I have downloaded, short, but not too many gigs or loud,

I’m a man of means by no means, King of the cloud

I know every coder on every train,

none have children and can’t remember names.

And every password for every app,

And every hack that ain’t locked, when no one’s around.

I sing: passwords for sale or rent, rooms to let, five thousand bits.

No stoves, no pool, no pets, can’t smoke no cigarettes.


The Perfect Country Song Backwards

I escaped prison,
On a mission,
To kill a politician.
Found him at a country western bar.

“Friend,” he said, “I got to write the perfect country song and sing it up on that stage in a minute. The words that I wrote don’t seem to be right.”

“To talk the talk, you had to have walked the walk.” I said, “I’ll write that song for you and I’ll make the words sing true.”

He said, “If you do, I’ll be there for you.”

So, I wrote the perfect country song backwards.
I watched as he went up on the stage and didn’t notice that “America’s Most Wanted” was starting on the bar tube.
He sang my tune as my mug shot showed.

“My Mama tried and succeeded.
Never heard the lonesome train whistle blow.
Didn’t cheat on my wife.

Lived as sober as a judge.
Got rid of my dog because he attacked my cat.
And gambling’s not for me.

This is the perfect country western song, in reverse.
So, the words will ring true and be uplifting for you.

As my target sang my song, I didn’t see what was wrong.
Seems the police were at the door and coming after me.

He kept singing my words:

“I never went hunting with my dad.
Seldom fished in a brook.
Don’t like the rodeo.
Think guns should be takin away.

Never rode a John Deer.

My neck ain’t red, and no beard.
There’s a bad woman in every honky-tonk angel.

My father was a gentleman farmer,
when the crops wouldn’t yield, he’d make a deal.
And with the government subsidies,
I went to Yale and became a politician.
My Campaign bus is my 18-wheeler.”

I never noticed the cops until the tap on my shoulder. As they dragged me away, I heard my new friend say:

“I’m working on letting felons vote.”

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