[Alice au Wonderland]

Mischief, today. Any requests?

Yes, please. Something wicked, yet tasteful and elegant, if you can manage it.

[NicknamedBob]

"Something wicked, yet tasteful and elegant ..."

Wicked, I'm sure, but tasteful and elegant only in comparison with the "Ode to Lung-Butter," which will shortly follow ...


Something Wicked

Something wicked. Let me think,
Maybe I should get a drink,
To enhance creative juices,
As my libido unlooses.

Right! I’m thinking now of something,
I have thought upon before,
That in all my private passions,
I have not been keeping score.

Half-a-dozen dozen virgins,
Seems to be the going rate,
I’m far behind in that regard,
Please hold that trip to Heaven’s gate!

How to catch up for the record?
How to cast my net so wide,
That some scores of comely maidens,
Will be deftly drawn inside...

I’ll need pheromone enhancers,
And cosmetic work as well,
In the past harumph of decades,
‘Fraid my body’s gone to H*ll!

Money seems a great attractor,
I’ll just dangle out some pence.
How much booty do you think I’ll,
Get with only fifty cents?

NicknamedBob . . . . February 20, 2006


And now just compare that with this ...

Ode to Lung-Butter

(-Cough-) Lung-butter, my lament,
I must hope not Heaven-sent.
Hackers all, when this we find,
As evidence of daily grind.

That’s where germs exist, you know,
Not out in the pristine snow,
Or on the beaches, in the Sun,
But where we go to get work done.

Work is a word phlegmatic spat,
But clearly where the germs are at.
We start out healthy, when we rise,
To greet the world with shining eyes,

And then to work we make our way,
To find our “Buddy” there that day,
Who doesn’t wish to waste sick leave,
Not while his nose can find his sleeve.

Bio-weapons may be rare,
But one can find them in the air.
One finds in his proximity,
A walking weapons factory.

So thus it is on our way home,
We find our lungs may seek to roam,
Our head stuffed up like ripened plum,
And where is all that pudding from?

Just put a sign up where you work,
“If you get sick, don’t be a Jerk!
Please keep your butt home in your bed,
You won’t get paid if you end up dead!”

NicknamedBob . . . . November 6, 2004

Ode to Lung-Butter

(-Cough-) Lung-butter, my lament,
I must hope not Heaven-sent.
Hackers all, when this we find,
As evidence of daily grind.

That’s where germs exist, you know,
Not out in the pristine snow,
Or on the beaches, in the Sun,
But where we go to get work done.

Work is a word phlegmatic spat,
But clearly where the germs are at.
We start out healthy, when we rise,
To greet the world with shining eyes,

And then to work we make our way,
To find our “Buddy” there that day,
Who doesn’t wish to waste sick leave,
Not while his nose can find his sleeve.

Bio-weapons may be rare,
But one can find them in the air.
One finds in his proximity,
A walking weapons factory.

So thus it is on our way home,
We find our lungs may seek to roam,
Our head stuffed up like ripened plum,
And where is all that pudding from?

Just put a sign up where you work,
“If you get sick, don’t be a Jerk!
Please keep your butt home in your bed,
You won’t get paid if you end up dead!”

NicknamedBob . . . . November 6, 2004