The comments and views expressed here do not reflect those of my employer, my doctor, my bookie, or anyone really, including myself.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

The grease and salt at the bottom of the bag.

Hey diddle diddle
I seem to lack spittle
I thus cannot blow my horn
I tried this here fiddle
But it ain't beer and skittles
As my rotator cuff is torn

He kept to himself
Ne'er a curse, cuss, nor holler
'Till the day he decided
To wear a ruffed collar

There were seven to start
But seven's too many
She got carried away
Now she hasn't got any

When you got way too much
You go through 'em to fast
When you had it was Now
But Now it's all Past

One got lost in a crowd
One got caught in a breeze
One was trapped, one was drowned
One was bled out by fleas

The last two left together
They ran for their lives
To escape the cruel fate
Of the unfortunate five