Confessions of a New Age Failure

 meditation

My Karma’s hit a snafu

My third eye’s on the blink

My Chakra lights are dimming

And my Guru is a fink

 

My mantra it has asthma

My Buddha’s out to lunch

To top it off my psychic’s got

Her bloomers in a bunch

Buddah out to lunch_s

 My levitation doesn’t work

My Medium’s not rare

My Kirlian Photography

Just makes me want to swear!

 

My paradigm it doesn’t shift

My Om has left the room

My stupid cosmic consciousness

Is full of doom and gloom

 

My ESP is DOA

My dowser is a louse

My Astral Body’s far too fat

My aura wears a blouse!

psychic

So to  you all I bid adieu

And hope you won’t be bitter

But when it comes to New Age stuff

My higher self’s a quitter

 Thrid eye

A Letter to Father Time From His Boss

Dear Father Time: 

Permit me to say, my dear Father Time

In this letter I write you (that I’m going to rhyme)

It looks like the future’s a big disappointment

Take pimples, for instance, there’s still not an ointment . . .

 

And no flying cars, now what’s up with that?

And where is that pill that you promised for fat?

 

No robots to wait on us twenty-four seven?

No ray guns to use to send someone to heaven?

 

Oh sure, we’ve got lasers, but that point is moot

When you up and forgot: anti-gravity boot

 

And where, may I ask, are time travel machines?

On the junk heap, no doubt (with the synthetic spleens)

 

My dear Father Time, I’m  perplexed and chagrined

That you’ve fallen behind on the future therein

 

After talking it over with Jack Frost and Cupid

I regret to inform you (I really feel stupid)

It’s time to let someone else give it a whirl

You’ve just been replaced by the Calendar Girl

img133

My Mighty Steed’s a Centipede

Oh roll of thunder hear my cry

I just got a dirt clod in my eye

A hundred feet they beat asunder

Atop my centipede of wonder

 

Never do I turn my head

For falling off’s my biggest dread.

Not that I’d have far to fall

For a centipede’s not tall at all

 

But his feet, my dear, are a hundred numbered

Yet he never finds himself encumbered

He ties his shoes so they don’t come loose

With a slip-knot, square-knot,  half-hitch noose

 

Centipede

Until next time  . . . I love you

 

 

 

The Onomatopoeia Sisters’ Phone Call

Onomatopoeia Sisters' Phone Call

 

Until next time, I love you

Entertaining Attila

Melissa Miranda Malinda MacNella

Went to the store to find her a fella

Came home with a guy whose name was Attila

(Someone had beat her to Nelson Mandela)

 

At first he was fun (he was such a dear Hun)

Til he started reciting the battles he’d won

And the heads he beheaded (it was over a ton)

And the peasants he’d spared (of which there were none)

 

What’s Melissa to do with a guy such as he?

An infamous killer from 453

Well the answer it came to her clear as can be

She gave him some popcorn and turned on TV

Atilla the Hun

Oh the violence he saw there was creepy and chilling

He couldn’t believe all the torture and killing

Rivers of blood by the buckets was spilling

 Attila found watching cartoons quite fulfilling

 

Horribly Art: Attila the Hun 

 

A Very Early Christmas Poem

A Very Early Christmas Poem Linda Vernon Humor

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Until next time  . . . I love you

Yak Problems

Yak

 

 

img078Until next time . . . I love you