This page includes several of the humorous ballads/poems I have written to date. Many of them are derived from people I have known and/or stories I have heard. Some I just made up. Those that have been published are indicated.

I Hope You Enjoy Them

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The Plot (New Classic Poems … May 2005)

Mission Impossible

Birthday Surprise (New Classic Poems … May 2005)

The Truth Of It Is (New Classic Poems … May 2005)

The Triple Filter Test

The Construction Bastards

Mission Impossible

While walking on the beach one day on Oregon's north coast,

A man, while lost in meditation tripped and fell -- almost.

This woke him from his reverie. He stopped and looked around

at weathered wood and withered weed all strewn out on the ground.

Beside his foot, a glassy lump had nearly caused his fall.

Half-buried in the sand, an urn with soiled and murky pall.

He bent to see just what it was. He brushed away the sand.

He pulled it free, then heard a voice. "Your wish is my command."

He dropped the urn, and turned to see a turbaned ghostly shroud.

"I thank you friend for freeing me." A voice came from the cloud.

"For that I'll grant you any wish. Just one though, I'm afraid.

Ask any thing your heart desires. You then, will be repaid."

Surprised and somewhat startled, the man cowered, and then fell.

The Genie laughed. "So what's your wish? You don't have time to dwell."

He picked himself up off the ground, not sure just what to say.

Was this a trick, or was this real? Was this his lucky day?

"Okay," he said. "I'll play your game. Here's something you can try.

Hawaii's where I want to go, but I'm afraid to fly.

So build a bridge from here to there. To get there I can drive.

That is my wish, and your command. It's yours now to contrive."

The Genie looked away awhile, then turned and said, "I can't.

With all the wisdom that I have, this wish I cannot grant.

Concrete and steel could not be found, enough to build this span.

Why don't you wish the normal things? The ones I know I can."

"All right," he said. "I have one more. I've yearned this all my life.

For more than thirty years I've tried to understand my wife.

In fact I've never figured out the things that women think.

So that's my wish; to understand this age-old missing link."

The Genie turned away again; his hands raised in the air.

He chanted loud, in foreign tongue. He wailed and pulled his hair.

Then turning back, in pleading voice, said, "Master, I implore.

That bridge you want? What would you like? Two driving lanes or four?"

The Plot

I've come to notice lately that around me things have changed.

I'm not sure when it happened, but I find it very strange

that every time I take a walk, it's uphill all the way,

and seems to be much farther than it was just yesterday.

They're building stairways steeper now than those they used to build.

My groceries seem much heavier, though bags are but half-filled.

And someone's hiding things of mine. They're always going astray.

Then strangely they show up again, within one or two days.

Why am I always stiff and sore? This thing I can't explain.

Perhaps the kinds of food I eat are causing me this pain?

Or maybe it's the water, full of chemicals and stuff?

I'm taking twenty pills a day. Maybe that's not enough?

You know the collar labels that are sewn inside our shirts?

Well, mine now all read size eighteen. The truth of it sure hurts.

A fifteen would still fit my neck, however I must face

the fact that it would never fit around my bulging waist.

I've always been a stubborn sort. I don't always conform,

but now I'm more congenial, or so I am informed.

Not true. My nodding head is not a sign that I agree.

My glasses have five lenses, and I'm scanning just to see.

Seems bathroom scales are now being made with much less quality.

I don't believe the number on the dial that I see.

I'd call the factory if I could, and tell them what I think,

but I can't read the phone book with its tiny printed ink.

Most people seem much younger than I was when at their age?

I'm sure that I was more mature when I was at that stage.

Yet, friends of mine who've always been the same age as I am,

seem older now, and frailer; some no longer give a damn.

I saw an old friend just last week. She'd aged, her pallor gray.

She did not recognize me, and she looked the other way.

This morning as I washed my face, the mirror looked back at me.

It seems that mirrors are not being made the way they used to be.

I think I know what's happening. I've got it figured out.

There's not too much that I can do. Of that I have no doubt.

Long life has schemed against me; a conspiracy; a plot.

It beats the other option though, so I don't want it stopped.

The Match

Now Bill McDuff and Pete McGee had been good friends for years.

They'd chase golf balls around the course then go have a few beers.

Their clubhouse talk was all about the great shots that they'd made;

the putts just missed; who'd had the luck. The loser always paid

One day in jest, McDuff said to the boys around the table,

"You might agree that McGee's game, is something of a fable.

I don't know quite what game he plays. It's not golf though," he sighed.

"The foot wedges he likes to use do wonders for bad lies"

The boys all had a laugh at this. They knew that this was fact.

"McDuff," said Pete, "they say a pot can't call a kettle black.

We've all watched you set up your ball wherever it might be.

At least when on the fairway, I have never used a tee."

And on it went for several pints with barbs, and taunts, and shots,

until McDuff said "That's enough! You've hit a tender spot.

McGee, I've got a hundred bucks. A game we're going to play."

"You're on'" said Pete. "We'll play the ball where it lies all the way.

Next day at noon with players poised, the match was set to start.

So they could see each other's shots they'd use a power cart.

McGee stepped up and teed his ball; the first ball of the round.

With mighty swing and forceful stroke, he pushed it out of bounds.

McDuff drove well; short club to green. Two putts gave him a par.

"Bad luck," he chuckled, knowing things were going well thus far.

Things didn't change. By number nine McDuff was up by five.

He won the next two holes as well. The match now just alive.

On number twelve his drive was pure. Out long and straight it went.

McGee's ball sliced to the cart path, And sat on hard cement.

Complacently, McDuff declared, "So move it, I don't care.

The rules allow you some relief, but me ... I'd play from there."

McGee knew this was his last chance, and sweat formed on his brow.

McDuff was cool. He walked away. It hardly mattered now.

He went to where his own ball lay, then looked back just in time

to see McGee's first practice swing, and hear a rasping grind.

McGee had one more up his sleeve. This thought had him inspired.

With scrape and grate, his practice swing brought sparks, and rain of fire.

Another practice, then his shot. The ball rose from the blaze.

It hit the green, rolled in the hole. He stood there quite amazed.

He drove back to 'the Duffer'. He had had a bit of luck.

He thought there was a chance now to not lose his hundred bucks.

McDuff looked up. "Good Shot," he said. "What did you use? Which stick?"

McGee grinned back, "Oh, one of yours. I think it was your six."

McDuff was mad. He lost his cool; the hole; then all the rest.

The match was drawn and no doubt, that was surely for the best.

That night at home, with cloth and stone, McGee shined up his six.

He'd used his club to play that shot. 'The Duffer' had been tricked.

The Truth Of It Is

(An episode in one of life's greatest adventures ... marriage)

A painted moon hung full and high, it's blush subdued, yet bright.
A darkened car, with headlights blurred, rushed through the lonely night.
The occupants, myself, my wife, were speaking of our speed.
Upset, she griped, "Please slow it down. There isn't any need."

I pushed the pedal even more. "Why don't you just relax?"
I'm doing fine, and I'm just driving slightly more than max."
The party had been fun that night, and I was feeling fine.
Why did she have to spoil it now? Why did she have to whine?

As I looked in my rear view mirror, I saw some flashing lights.
"That's great," I said. "Here come the cops." The siren pierced the night.
"I told you so. You've done it now," her scold, more like a wail.
"We can't afford a ticket. Worse, they might throw you in jail."

I pulled onto the shoulder with the police car just behind.
How would I get out of this mess? Then something came to mind.
I would deny, plead ignorance. I couldn't help but smile.
I thought I might just pull this off if I could use some guile.

The officer came to our car. I rolled my window down.
"What's up?" I asked. "Is something wrong?" He looked at me and frowned.
"I'll need to see your license, and your registration please."
"No problem," I responded. I was trying to seem at ease.

The cop looked at his paperwork, then took it to his car.
I turned, looked at my wife, and said, "I'm doing fine so far."
With manner stern, the cop returned. "You were going much too fast.
Your speed was over ninety when your vehicle went past."

"That's crazy. There's no way," I said. "You've made a big mistake.
I'm always careful of my speed. The law, I never break."
My wife leaned forward, "What a line. You always drive too fast.
I've told you that a hundred times. Your luck's run out at last."

I couldn't quite believe my ears. She was out of control.
The cop had heard the whole thing, just when I'd been on a roll.
"Excuse me. Let me handle this," I snapped back at my wife.
"Just sit back please, and shut your mouth." My words cut like a knife

The officer looked in the car. His flashlight's beam was bright.
"I see you have no seatbelt on. For that, I too must cite."
"I must have just removed it, Sir," more sheepishly this time.
"I swear. I always wear my belt." I buckled up in mime.

"Hah, what a joke," my wife spoke up. "You never wear your belt.
When I ask you to buckle up, you say it leaves a welt."
"That's it, you stupid woman! We will settle this at home.
Why can't you keep your big trap shut?" My mouth began to foam.

The cop then motioned, "S'cuse me Mamm, will you please step outside.
You wait here Sir. We won't be long." When out, the policeman pried.
"Are you all right? If you would like, I'll throw him in the clink."
"No, I'll be fine. He's harmless. He's just had too much to drink."

Sharing

There are some things that really are not what they seem to be.

We sometimes make assumptions based on what we think we see.

This happened to me recently; remembered with a smile,

how much our way of life has changed in just a little while.

I'd gone out for a walk one day, and felt the need to eat.

A Golden Arches beckoned me to give myself a treat.

I ordered a Big Mac and Fries, then sat down eagerly.

Nearby a man and woman sat. They were quite elderly.

I noticed they had just one tray, with one meal for the two.

A quarter-pounder, fries and drink, with two straws to sip through.

I watched him cut the hamburger into two equal shares,

then count the fries and give to her one half of what was theirs.

The old man then began to eat from his side of the tray.

The woman smiled, and watched him dine. Not one word did she say.

I must say that I felt quite bad that it had come to that.

I didn't think they did this just to keep from getting fat.

I'd heard that many seniors had a tough time getting by.

The cost of living had, in fact, near bled their pensions dry.

I turned to him and asked if I might buy another meal.

That way they both would have their own, and better I would feel.

"I thank you son, but we're just fine. We've been wed fifty years.

Most everything is shared with us. It's not what it appears."

" But what of you?" I looked at her. "Are you not going to eat?"

"Oh yes, I will," she smiled and said. "When he's done with our teeth."

Semantix

Young Jamie'd been a father now for just about five years.

His wife and he had done quite well through baby's joy and tears.

His 'Daddy's girl' was growing fast. She'd soon be going to school.

He answered all her questions, and he told her all the rules.

One day as he was sitting back in front of the TV,

his little girl came up to him and asked quite solemnly,

"So Daddy, what's this thing called sex? I don't know this new name."

He swallowed hard, then haltingly began to best explain.

He spoke of birds and bees and things, and from where babies come.

He wanted her to understand, although she was quite young.

"But tell me why you want to know?" he asked. She looked perplexed.

"Cause Mommy said that dinner would be in just a few 'secs'."

The Excuse

Now Clancey McGinty loved to play golf. A duffer he was, so to speak.

On Sundays he'd play; his schedule was such that he'd only get one game a week.

At 7:00 a.m. he'd arrive at the course, hit some balls then putt for a while.

His regular tee time was set up for 8:00. The Pro-Shop had placed it on file.

It would take him four hours to circuit the course. He usually was finished by noon.

Before heading home he'd have lunch and a beer. He always sang the same tune.

His routine was just that; it was always the same. He'd arrive home just after One,

Say hello to his wife, fall asleep in his chair, as his game in his mind was rerun.

There was cause for concern on the part of his wife when one Sunday he broke this routine.

When he didn't show up as the clock went by One, she assumed he was somewhere between.

By Two she was worried. He should have been home. Delayed, he would surely have called.

By Three she was frantic. Where could he be? Her worst fears could not be forestalled.

By Four her concern had turned into ire, upset by Clancey's neglect.

Just like a man to not think of his wife when a call would affirm his respect.

When McGinty walked in at Five p.m. with a sheepish grin on his face,

He faced a tirade that he could not evade. No doubt he was not in her grace.

When she finally calmed down, she quietly asked, "Where in the world have you been?"

Clancey looked up, his palms raised in front, "My Dear, things are not what they seem.

I'm sorry I didn't think to phone home. I won't use sweet words to cajole.

The strangest thing happened today. I'm afraid things got out of control."

"I'd just finished lunch. The boys had all left. was drinking the last of my beer,

When a woman came by and sat by my side; a good-looking redhead, I fear.

She asked me to tell her what golf was about, and what was the point of the game.

She had no idea; she wanted to learn; to her golf was only a name."

"So we talked for a while of the game and its guile, and why it was such an attraction.

I was flattered that she had asked me for help. Her good looks were quite a distraction.

At some point she asked me if I wouldn't mind, would I teach her to hit a golf ball?

So we went to the range for some knowledge exchange; it seemed she was truly enthralled."

"She wanted to buy me a drink, she declared, for my time, and my expert advice.

She wanted to offer me something, she said, and a beer hardly seemed to suffice.

So we went back inside. I accepted the bribe, then a look of alarm crossed her face.

She'd missed her ride home, she exclaimed with a gasp. Could I give her a ride to her place?"

"It seemed to me that I'd played a small part in her missing her chance to get home,

So I told her I could, and I should, so I would. I'd prefer it to driving alone.

When we got to her place, she invited me up to share with her one more cool drink.

The day had been hot. I was already late. I wasn't quite sure what to think."

"She made me a drink. We sat on her couch. 'Would you like something else,' she then said.

I'll not lie to you, Dear; I'm sorry to say that I soon found myself in her bed."

"In your dreams," said his wife, with a scowl on her face. "Enough of your lying, and tricks.

Why don't you just tell me the truth, and admit that you played thirty-six."

The Lesson

Jaques' job took everything he had. Sometimes he would get stressed.

And when he did, he'd lose his edge. He'd not be at his best.

He'd need to rest, but didn't like to lounge, or stay in bed.

"Why don't you get some exercise? Go golfing," a friend said.

"Why not," he thought. "It had been years since he'd last played the game.

And then, he had been lousy. It was not his claim to fame

So there he was, about to hit his ball from the first tee,

When came a man with friendly smile. He seemed most neighborly.

"I'm Pat McBaird," the man declared. "May I join you today?"

"Why don't you go ahead instead?" Jaques said, somewhat dismayed.

"I'm really quite a hacker. I am sure I'll hold you back."

"Let's play," said Pat, "and if you wish, I'll help you with the knack."

They hit their balls; Jaques' low and short, Pat's high and straight and long.

Jaques scuffed his next, his third as well. Each time something went wrong.

He scored an eight. "Not bad," said Pat. "Let's work on this a while.

"I think that I can fix your swing, and help you with your style."

They made their way around the course. Each hole, Pat offered tips.

By number six, Jaques' stance was fixed; his posture, and his grip.

By number nine, his swing looked fine, with tempo, style, and grace.

By number twelve, his chipping and his short game were in place.

They worked on putting for a while. It's where most hackers choke.

Pat showed him how to read the green; the slow and easy stroke.

Jaques birdied on the eighteenth hole, and as they left the green,

he said "Thanks Pat, your teaching is the best I've ever seen."

As they shook hands, Pat smiled at him. "There's something you should know.

This lesson cost you eighty bucks. You see ... I'm a 'Golf Pro'."

Jaques scowled then smiled, "I'm too a Pro. I work at Church St. Stephen.

Come visit sometime. Bring your folks. I'll wed them. We'll be even."

The Stone

Many people had come to Sidney's wake. His casket stood splendid in view.

As they lined up to speak, each offered a toast to help their memories renew.

His banker, his lawyer, accountant as well; they all had good things to say.

And well they should, for the final estate would surely be making their day.

By the time they were through, there wouldn't be much left for Sidney's good wife.

The last few years Sidney's business had seen financial problems and strife.

To make it work he'd had to sell the house, the cars, and the boat.

Whatever was left would go to pay bills. Tillie would sure be cleaned out.

But the party was on. The best of the year. He'd asked that it happen this way.

Tillie had set the whole thing up. She'd made sure that he had this big day.

People had come from near and far to pay their last respects.

Most invited, others not. Some crashed it, I suspect.

"What a wonderful man my husband was," Tillie raised her glass of red wine.

"I think of Dear Sidney, with a lump in my throat; a gentle man, thoughtful, and kind.

Close to the end I was called to his bed, and he whispered to me his last words."

"Three wishes I have. I've written them down." His voice could hardly be heard.

He handed her three thick envelopes. "These wishes to you I behest.

Please carry them out just as I've said, and peacefully then I will rest."

She took all three of them from his hand, and promised his will would be done.

And then with a smile, he left this world. She opened Envelope One.

"Envelope One contained ten thousand bucks, with a note," she said with a sigh.

"Buy me a casket that's sound and well sealed, so alone I may putrefy.

I don't want worms and other such things to be able to make their way in."

"And there it stands folks, hermetically sealed." The coffin was made of thick tin.

"Envelope Two contained one hundred grand, with a note," she said with a smile.

"Spare no expense when planning my wake. You won't have to reconcile."

"So strike up the band and swig back your drinks, but remember why you are here.

This money's been spent for your enjoyment, so to Sydney let's raise up a cheer."

"Envelope three contained one million bucks, and a note that with you I now share.

"Buy me a stone to sit oer my head. Buy one for yourself if you dare."

" Well you've all seen his stone. Do you want to see mine?" She raised her left hand in the air.

And showed them her ring of diamonds and gold. "I think that my stone I will wear."

The Final Bet

Now this is the story of partners and friends, Johnny and Sam were their names.

Best friends they'd been since boys in school. Their lives had progressed much the same.

High School, then college, marriage, then kids. Their law firm was much in demand.

For thirty-five years they'd stood at the bar, retiring at sixty as planned.

From the time they were kids they'd loved to play golf, but they'd loved to bet even more.

They always gave each other a match. Their skills much the same, and their scores

Neither made money no matter the bet; a dollar, a five, or a fin.

At the end of each year a tally would show they'd both had their fair share of wins.

When they finally retired it didn't change much. It just gave them more time to play.

The bet was the thing that turned these guys on. Their goal was the other would pay.

As they got older their scores went up too, but still, they kept the same pace.

No matter how much it hurt when they played, they always wore their game face.

One day they agreed that they'd had enough. They'd play golf just one more time.

When this game was done they'd hang up their clubs. To this they were surely resigned.

This would be it; one game to decide which one of these two was the best,

With one final bet of one thousand bucks; enough so their nerves it would test.

For this final game, two caddies they'd use to carry the clubs and keep score.

Johnny and Sam would use a golf cart. They rarely walked anymore.

On One, Two, and Three, Sam took three fives. Johnny played these with three fours.

At the turn Sam was forty, John thirty-nine; one stroke between their two scores.

On Ten and Eleven, Sam's total was seven. John had some trouble; took nine.

On Twelve John played well, and beat Sam by two. John was ahead, and felt fine.

On number Fourteen, Sam made up the stroke. By Sixteen the lead he'd reclaimed,

but as they walked up to the tee at Eighteen, their scores were exactly the same.

Both of them hit good drives on Eighteen, a par five with trees on the right.

Sam's second shot landed short of the green; John's, in the woods, out of sight.

They went to the trees. Sam helped him look for a while, then walked to his ball.

John and his caddie searched a bit more. Would a lost ball be Johnny's downfall?

Sam chipped his ball up on to the green. It stopped one foot from the cup.

He smiled; feeling good; a tap in for bird. Too bad about Johnny's bad luck.

"I found it," yelled John. "I just found my ball, and I've even got a good shot."

"So hit it then," Sam hooted right back. Give it the best that you've got."

John looked at his line, then set up on the ball. Two branches he must go between.

He swung, the ball rose, it hit the top branch, caromed up, flew the trap to the green.

It ran to the hole, hit the pin and dropped in. Sam grimaced. He knew that he'd lost it.

He turned to his caddie. "I can't say a word. I've got his lost ball in my pocket."

Home Work

It had been a long day, and John was worn out. He pulled the car into the drive.

He'd left that morning just before six, and now it was just after five.

He had a tough job; lots of pressure and stress, dealing with clients all day.

When he got home at night, he liked to relax in his chair in his usual way.

The first thing he saw as he shut off the car was a bike in the garage, on the floor.

His wife's car was parked outside in the drive, with a wide open passenger door.

His youngest child climbed out, on the run. She was wearing pajamas it seemed.

"Hooray," she cried, as she came to his car. "It's Daddy," she loudly screamed.

Then the other two kids, in pajamas as well, all covered in mud, head to toe,

came from the house in a race for their Dad, both crying their sad tales of woe.

They'd had a big fight, and the youngest was hurt. The other declaring no blame.

They both talked at once; one through her tears; their stories were not quite the same.

John looked around. The yard was a mess. There were empty food wrappers and such

strewn everywhere. His flower garden crushed; the one he had prided so much.

"Be quiet," he yelled! "What's going on? Where's your mother?" He had a bad feeling.

He ran to the house, front door open wide; charged in. His senses were reeling.

Inside the front entry he looked all around. Chaos and mayhem in reign.

An open juice bottle lay on the floor. On the carpet a scarlet red stain.

In the front room the TV was blaring. The stereo turned up as well.

Toys and kid's clothes were strewn all around. He detected a rather ripe smell.

Where was his wife? There wasn't a sign. He loudly called out her name.

He went to the kitchen, the source of the smell. The odor was pungent and game.

Dirty dishes in sink; counters spilling with food; a gaping wide open fridge door,

and a present from Bowser, their three month old pup, in a putrid, brown pile on the floor.

He leapt over the dog as he ran up the stairs. He was frantic to locate his wife.

Perhaps she was ill, or had fallen, or worse. He was worrying now for her life.

He tripped on some toys in the hallway up stairs, fell into their bedroom door.

"Hi," said his wife, looking up from her book, as he picked himself up off the floor.

Bewildered, he asked, "What's going on?" In pajamas, she lounged in their bed.

"Not much," she replied. "How was your day?" she asked with a smile, and then said,

"You know every day when you come home from work and ask, "What did you do today?""

"Well today I didn't do any of it. Maybe now you'll believe what I say."

The Strangest Thing

I know this sounds strange, and hard to believe, but I ask that you please hear me out.

The story is true, and when I am through I hope I've removed any doubt.

My tale begins simply enough. I was tired. I'd been working quite hard.

So I went to my Club for a quick round of golf. I'd finish my work afterward.

There was no one around so I played by myself; a good chance to work on my game.

I wish now that someone had been there with me. What happened is hard to explain.

I'd finished Hole One, was approaching on Two, when a frog jumped up near my ball.

I paid no attention, took out my wedge. "Ribbit, Nine," said the frog with a drawl.

No way, I thought; too close for a nine. "Ribbit, Nine," said the frog once again.

"Okay," I said. "I'll give it a try," and I hit it right up by the pin.

"Wow," I exclaimed, "You sure know your stuff." I putted it in for a bird.

"Was that just good luck? Can you do it again? What club should I use on the third?"

"Ribbit, Three Wood," the frog replied. Once more not the club I'd have picked.

I swung at the ball. It landed the green, then rolled right on up to the stick.

It almost stopped, but changed its mind, then dropped in the cup for an 'Ace'.

What could I say; this was my lucky day; a talking frog not commonplace.

And so the game went; the frog picked the clubs; I would then make the shot.

When finished my score was a record for sure, thanks to my bloat-throat mascot.

"Thanks very much. What else can you do?" I turned to the frog and asked.

"Ribbit, Las Vegas," the frog replied. "Ribbit, Casino," it gasped.

The frog then hopped up into my hand. "Ribbit, Let's go," it said.

So we went to the airport and got on a plane. It rode in my bag overhead.

When we arrived we went to the Strip. "Ribbit, Mirage," it declared.

"Ribbit, Roulette; Ribbit, Three Grand; Ribbit, Black Six, if you dare.

A Sucker's bet, the odds were high. The chance of a win not good.

Three Grand was a lot. I had to have faith. I hoped I'd not misunderstood.

So I made the bet; the whirling wheel spun, and lo, when it stopped I had won.

A man came by and gave me a cheque, when I told him that I was done

When the frog and I got up to my room, I was still somewhat tongue-tied.

"What can I do to repay you," I asked? "Ribbit, Kiss Me," it replied.

I did, and the frog transformed to a girl, naked, her youth in full bloom.

And Your Honor, that's how this girl, but fifteen, was up there that night, in my room.

The Golden Rule

Now Mary was a joyful girl, a smile was always near.

Her voice was like a song in spring, with lilt, and crystal clear.

She went to church each Sunday morn, sang in the choir as well.

At school the Nuns all fancied her. They called her Evangelle.

They thought she was an angel sent down here to the earth.

Her future had been mapped, it seemed, from the moment of her birth.

She planned to be a Sister too, when she was fully-grown,

A Bride of Christ would be her life; since childhood she had known.

At eighteen years, arrangements made; her schooling now complete,