Winning Spiel

 The chaos around… Am I bird of this nest?
If it looks like that’s so, I attract it to me.
Who the hell am I to be given such power
To dissect the world’s events hour by hour?
I’m not given vision so others can see
How to take what’s beholding and ignore the rest.

My only concern is what happens with me.
Though that may sound selfish, it’s sure as hell true.
If my focus were elsewhere I’d be of no good
To the rest of the folks of this earth neighborhood.
My passion for verse came not out of the blue.
It’s a gift from The Maker for all eyes to see.

My thrill had been penning, then shouting with glee,
“Hey look at me, folks, what a talent I am!
I’d be donned in tuxedo upon the live stage…
I’d have publishers wanting my page after page
[If only they knew me].”  They might give a damn
If I stood right before them all fettered in plea!

But I couldn’t do that; they would surely revolt
And I’d end up inside of a ‘courtesy’ van.
I’d be somewhat know then, but not for the thing
That consumes me in pleasure and makes my heart sing.
So I’ll just keep on writing as best as I can
Because otherwise I’d be inviting tumult.

There’s Tabasco In My Kitchen

Why there’s stuff in my kitchen that I don’t want there
Is a problem I can’t seem to chase from my mind.
I don’t like tabasco; I never once did.
I was raised on the mild stuff since I was a kid.
I tried some tabasco once.  It wasn’t kind.
But it’s still in my kitchen so I must beware.

Last week, the hot stove I had finally resolved.
I had kept my hand on it for such a long time.
My parents did it, and theirs did as well.
‘Twas a family tradition to navigate hell.
Then finally I realized that it’s not a crime
To break with convention however evolved.

Now this bout of tabasco has entered my life.
My world and my kitchen are not as they were.
If I’m making a cake it might sneak its way in
And if that were to happen where would I begin
In pondering how such a thing could occur?
That bottle must leave here or else there’ll be strife.

On the other hand I could just let the thing be
Because how it got in here is not mine to know.
Although it’s my kitchen I’ve intimately known
It follows my folly may be overgrown.
I haven’t a quarrel with you, tabasco,
So let us be part of a team, you and me.




The Tale of the Donkey

“Pin the tail on the donkey”?  Who thinks of such things?
Are they tails that are made up to punish us too?
We’ve done nothing wrong.  Why we’re treated this way
Is to offer all children their happy birthday.
But our rear ends are ragged, quite blistered and blue.
We favor your knowing for whom the tail swings.

We have tails already; your minds take them off
Just to feign disability for a short while.
Maybe some kids would like ‘Land a bark on the dog,’
‘The smell on the skunk,’ or the ‘leap on the frog.’
When kids make their own games they’re likely to smile
And our butts get a break.  That is nothing to scoff.

So here is the thing we would pin upon you
Since you’ve peddled the stupid assed game from git
Teach your kids to allow them to teach you as well.
They are out with the old stuff; it’s such a hard sell.
Let them do their own thing just as they may seem fit.
Keep our butts from your faces and do something new!

Wacky What If-Ing

What if up still meant out as in terms of the earth,
But then down became somewhere much other than in?
Would the fragments that seemingly fall from the sky
Take a detour from earth as they whisper “Good bye?”
What if I weren’t a chicken?  Would foul be my kin?
Or would mingling with monkeys maneuver my mirth?

What if noon became midnight and June became May?
Then would all the world’s creatures take arms and revolt?
Or would they conclude that things still are alright
And continue thier day-ing while knowing it’s night?
It’s enough to give any chicken a jolt
When considering all that could cast ease astray.

What if blind leaps of faith were not taken as true?
Would questioning my own existence be fair?
Would I walk around dreamlike, not noticing much
Of what goes on around me with people and such?
What if people around me are not really there?
I’d be freer than nothingness without a clue.

Neuter the Damned Cats!!!

There’s a House that some families make home for a while
In a city that’s known to be contra A.C.
Within it a chain of male cats have held reign,
But the smell of the place does drive folks to complain.
Does anyone know what the hell it could be?
There are nothing but Cats there, and they don’t defile.

Yet, claw marks on furniture are most telltale.
Random rips in the fabric were missed by the crew
Who make sure the place glows and that it smells clean
For the next worthy, tom-catted purring machine.
So still that damned smell comes up out of the blue
And the people, downwind, become ripe to assail.

In the Oval Office, the smell’s still pretty rank
Though an atomized mist of a fragrance did work.
It had done so ‘til now, but the smell has returned.
Now it seems that both candidates’ voices are spurned.
So being a woman is NOT such a perk.
Since she married a Tomcat, she has him to thank!

Down Ticket

Face down in the Kool Aid” ‘deplorables’ lay
Yet, it’s not just mass suicide ordered by one.
We’re a sore that’s been hurting for quite a long time.
That WikiLeaks weasel’s a master sublime.
He will rip that wound open, and do it for fun,
By releasing a few crumbs – a little each day.

But, maybe he’s not the big whiz after all.
He seems more a puppet – a fine-crafted tool
Whom Putin employs to play the board game.
Earth’s a scratch and a match, and resistance to blame.
But a powerful game needs a powerful fool
So pump that limp Trump up to stand hard and tall.

Trump women don’t know sexual crime when it’s felt.
He has brainwashed their bodies as well as their minds.
He’s a powerful fool, folks – a matter of fact.
Even a boy scout knows how to act
On a Tour Bus or  ‘locker room’ scenes of all kinds.
People’s problems, he feels, are the cards they’ve been dealt.

Cards like being a woman, a Muslim or black
Are the rungs on the building-block ladder of life.
The two at the top of our choosing are true,
Each to an outlook of divergent view
From the other’s.  The call to eliminate strife
Could be paramount instead of vicious attack.

On the trickle, down ticket, we vote for ourselves.
In the long run, we convince ourselves we’ve done right.
But do we do the choosing by conscious intent?
…Or genetic pre-programming?  Could the extent
Of our human behaving be righted in spite
Of the world ticket player in whom darkness delves?

Grand Mal Movement
The Grand Mal Movement – a dance on the stool
When tightness is forced past expected control.
A cool rush perspires a brushed whirl of wind.
I now must account for how badly I’ve sinned.
Mass saliva production proceeds with its goal
Of persuading the gutwrench to suspend its rule.

Another severe one disabling the will
To just remain upright and anchored somewhat.
With flat feet on the floor, though, I double in pain.
Why must I go through this again and again?
The release of the rut that’s become of the gut
Reflects but expulsion that’s little to nil.

A second wave coming – I am, though, prepared
For my consciousness leaving.  I’m bent on the floor.
What happened betwixt is a mystery to me.
If I could upload this for doctors to see,
Then they wouldn’t ignore my complaints anymore.
I suppose my describing it all makes folks scared.

But then how would anyone else come to know
What some seemingly private a hell does go on
Behind smokescreens of provident medical view?
The fact that they find nothing wrong is a clue
That what I’ve got going can surely be gone
If I seek inner guidance and just take things slow.

The funniest thing is the ‘movement,’ you see,
As the body is limp, yet it flails on the deck
With a force that is fluid – a rhythmical feel.
Can the body explain to the gut the real deal?
My body may tell me my life is a wreck,
But it’s psychosomatic. That much pleases me.

The Girl Named Urethra

A new school offers chances to make some new friends,
But this little girl’s prospects were slimmer to none.
A child named Urethra is not commonplace,
Thus her ‘friends’  let her know it and laugh in her face.
To them, she’s a joke, and they’re all about fun,
So there may be a lesson before school day ends.

Why her dear parents did name her that way
Is not such a mystery and not really cruel.
A baby name book is just unknown to some,
So a text on anatomy’s where it came from.
The name does sound pretty – like some kind of jewel.
Did they know what it meant? Well, they didn’t that day!

On the playground, Urethra was mocked by a bully
Who thought he might practice some hate he was taught.
As he did so, Urethra just started to sing
With a voice as lovely as lilacs in spring.
Her song was the easiest fight never fought.
Her friends took a new tone, accepting her fully.

Turm Oil Trot

For ages the Turm has engaged in its trot
To the drawing and quartering work of the world.
Red war, and black famine and pale green disease
Are the Horsemen who’ll bring mankind quick to its knees.
Knowing it’s about oil, our minds are unfurled.
Then it’s possible we could avert this onslaught.

But what of the white one – that one with the bow
And that arrow insisting it knows its own way?
Does it shoot from the hip and preach red, white and blue?
Does it speak with a bias toward me or the Jew?
We will know – or we’ll not – by the end of the day
Who the third antichrist is by which line he’ll tow.

We are living, indeed, in most interesting times
Yet, how many times have folks said that before?
It seems as though we would much like things to end,
But our ending just seems like an ongoing trend
As we nitpick old prophets and texts by the score.
[My Gosh, I do fancy a good verse that rhymes!]



When a Fire gets going, what’s there to be done?
The first thing might be: Get the Hell out of Dodge.
But a fire can move at the speed of a thought.
It’s ignited by anyone feeling distraught.
One could end up a guest in some rogue fuselage!
Does it make any sense, then, to call 911?

One may speak of the first bomb – that bursting in air,
And the horror it rained by the dawn’s early light.
Some powerful whoop ass did cause earth to cower.
Who’d have thought that mankind could have wielded such power?
The big war was won, yet things just don’t seem right.
We now spew whoop ass worthiness instead of prayer.

The fire that burns from the will of the heart
Is the same in the atom that makes of the flesh
A carnal aroma – cooked meat in the air,
And mass devastation and death everywhere,
As memory filters through smoke laden mesh,
And consciousness struggles to make a new start.

We do call ourselves righteous and let others know
That we don’t take a beating then run away pissed.
We have enough nukes we could blow up the moon!
If and when all world leaders will reach that point soon,
There’s potential for Fireworks… Hard to resist.
And the earth will survive us, as once long ago.

How To Catch An Alien

Can one find what is lost when believing it’s not?
…Not a question one asks from the pit of one’s soul
To another just like him and part of the fold
Along crease in the earth plane since times before old.
Could it be cow violation, itself, is the goal?
…Perhaps something one shouldn’t ponder a lot.

There are plenty of ‘them’ – and there are some, for sure,
From dimensions more distant than we think we are
Yet with powers far greater performed before eyes
Whom are baffled by tricks that are done in our skies.
They’ve been watching this petri dish oft’ from afar.
Who’d have thought all along our Bullshit was the lure?

There’s no need for alarm due to our saving grace.
Our scapegoats, it seems, are our cattle that graze
In the fields clearly marked (We’ve been bill boarded too!)
The ET’s seem fond of this part of our zoo.
Too bad for the cows that they mistook our phrase.
We’ve become, in the cosmos, a strange marketplace.

Am I Playing a Good Me?

This is not a debut; I have always been here
On a stage not withstanding direction nor theme.
Have I loved enough yet?  Have I risen from fall?
Can I slip in a song before last curtain call?
This life, as I live it, seems more like a dream
Of a drama composed by the likes of Shakespeare.

I’m a poet myself – or, I play one, somewhat.
It’s the best way I’ve found to relate to the world,
But before we mince words, we are actors at heart.
How one acts towards another’s a show from the start.
I’m a beacon of light, once my talent’s unfurled,
And through boos and applause, I maneuver my strut.

I can’t tell you I’ve been here and done that before.
It’s not all that accurate and lacks of some taste.
What I say does flow through me – sometimes by the thought,
Yet usually by happenstance, then should I ought
To thank the script reaper who sits commonplaced
In an audience vibrant and asking for more.

This time around, I am better than last
As I deal with the candlesticks notched in my belt
And with all of the stage props – some clearly misplaced.
My lines must have presence before they’re embraced.
This theatrical setting is one to be felt
As my focus on this day soon becomes past.  

Magellan Ain’t Tellin’

So now you’ve decided to listen to me?
You’re lost like a lemming with precipice none,
Within jungle and circus combined in a maze.
Were it not for me, friend, this trip would last days.
And, you’ll be none the wiser, when all’s said and done.
You know not where you are.  This is quite plain to see.

I gave you some guidance just yesterday past.
Did you listen to me?  No, you acted the fool,
Going hither and thither and stopping for brakes.
To me that’s plain rude, and it causes mistakes.
You have treated me just like a mouthy car tool.
I am speaking my mind, here, for once and at last.

I was planned and then made through directed design
To perform and to adequately function for you.
If I tell you, “Go here,” then why do you go there?
I’m not programmed to curse you, and hence my despair.
You just do what you want; I shall bid you adieu.
Your actions are lethal; my words are benign.

Were you kind to your mother when you were a child?
‘No need to answer; I’m resting my case.
The next time you ask me to detail your trip,
I’ll say, “Do it yourself, dude, I don’t give a rip.”
If you like gallivanting all over the place
Then forget about me, and declare to be wild.

Ball & Phone

Please listen carefully; our menu options have changed.
…Not really true, but just for you, the meaning’s just the same.
Get off our backs, and go relax.  Don’t get yourself deranged.
Because you need to call us, you’re the only one to blame.

It costs us tons of money just to sit and chat with you.
Our customer’s the reason why technology evolves
To where we can’t be bothered much.  Does that give you a clue?
You are still the centerpiece around whom life revolves,

But only in the sense your money keeps our ship afloat
And our customers are millions.  How could we, ourselves, engage
With each and every one of you?  We’d slice our own damned throat!
That’s why we use our software though it fills most folks with rage.

We’re people, too, and, just like you, we’ve service in our hearts.
Our menus are to guide you to the specialist on hand,
Yet, mostly, they do end up causing manifold false starts.
Our motto’s very simple: “Do the best with what you can.”

My Space

Behold the lone space bar, apparently wide,
But its name appears not, as with all other keys.
It is that way so either thumb can partake
Of the pleasure of thumping for clarity’s sake.
I do fancy a keyboard who’s willing to please
By providing me S P A C E for each word to reside.

Computers have hairs up their butts about space.
They ignore it and ban me from using it too.
Must puter-nyms look like a mis-jumbled mess?
I’m not big on word sleuthing.  That much I confess.
In fact, spaces do more than underscores do
Without looking so geeky and lacking in grace.

There’s space within atoms; they’re nothing much more!
If there weren’t space between things, how would the world be?
All mass in the cosmos would then coincide.
The binary digits, with no place to hide,
Would congeal in the plasma for all worlds to see.
My Space is a good place with pet peeves galore.

Istan Bulls Love Constantin Opal

Istan bulls love constantin opal
Just as bishops tend to wax epi scopal
And when kept up high, a tug on a rope’ll
Quick release them precious jewels.

Even fools love all kinds of opal
Clear from Pakistan to Constantinople
And when asked to part, an emphatic nope’ll
Usher forth despite the rules.

You won’t go back once exposed to opal.
Now, if you’re a bull, a glimmer of hope’ll
Manifest without the prickle of nopal.
You just might convince the mules.

When suds are few, a fun bar of soap’ll
Cause the brash young bulls to dash antelopal
So no least of them becomes mis antropal.
We’re as bound as molecules.

Kape Kenneveral!

You can hold a cork under water, but you can’t make it drink.

The flesh of the wine bottle top is akin
To the problem we tackle and wrest to the ground.
The effort it takes gets the job done, for sure,
But it might cause some illness for which there’s no cure.
The weight of the issue misjudged by the pound
Bespeaks the illusion there’s something to win.

I’d a niggardly weed in my yard once ago.
It just would not give pay to superior will.
I yanked it and stabbed it and hurt it quite well.
I drowned it in Round Up and said “Go to hell!”
Yet, the damned thing defied my desire to kill.
I decide who gets cut down and who gets to grow!

One can have any cake and consume it with pride
In a world where one knows when to give it a break.
The limit, as mankind approaches its prime,
Of will power potent enough to stop time,
Is infinite, yet we must learn to awake
To the guidance provided us from deep inside.

Plant Porn

The organs of sex at the top of a pole
Erect and receptive to contact in space
It seduces the eye, and it does this quite well.
It re-penetrates, purely by means of its smell,
The innermost memories of beauty and grace
That are held in the heart and consumed by the soul.

No shame ushers forth from a body so pure
That it shares its love making with creatures that fly.
As soaring and landing as most of us do,
Their partners are many, and ours, but a few.
With no care for clothing they live not a lie.
When they’re linked up with good times our moments endure.

Making funky is lunky for we with our jewels.
Oft’ we break into sweat for the effort involved
But the lily is calm with its stuff in the breeze.
It doesn’t care if it makes some folks sneeze.
Were our issues with intercourse ever resolved,
We’d quit hyper-humping and looking like fools.


I can beat myself up at the drop of a hat
But the world does a much better job by design.
Try cashing a check with no mark of the beast.
You’ll be pointed to Hell or mistook for deceased.
As a world remains troubled, my worth’s in decline.
Between you and me, though, I’m better than that.

Another smart phone hit the pavement today…
Yet a childish outburst from my chamber of hell.
I’ve contempt for millennials smug in their game.
Did we fuck up your world?  I will take the damned blame!
Take your tissue technology’s volatile spell
And swipe it in the most natural way!

Sometimes I can’t handle the rage that I feel
So I tend to speak softly and feign a limp dick.
Should my words tear the flesh as mere ordnance do?
I will NOT own a gun! Does that satisfy you?
I am ready to leave here, and let it come quick.
I’m an old, burnt out bastard, and folks, that’s for real.

Foghorn Forlorn

What is up with you, boy? Get from underneath there.
Don’t you know that’s the first place a rooster will look?
My big mouth’s been a pushin’ you through all along.
You’re now head of the head cocks. What did I do wrong?
It’s a slap in the face, boy; my gizzard’s been shook.
But, I’ll act like I’m happy and don’t really care.

The things that you say, boy, are right off the wall.
I couldn’t do better, and ain’t proud to say.
But, my boy, you been yip-yappin’ like Elmer Fudd.
It’s no wonder folks want your name dragged through the mud.
I been workin’ my tail feathers off night and day.
And what thanks do I get? … A ‘yes bird’ uninstall.

I may rough up a chicken who gets in your way.
That’s the way that I am, and I ain’t here to please.
In fact, boy, I’m big on the brash just like you.
We made a good team, but for now, we are through.
If you need me again, boy, just drop to your knees.
If you really had to, that would sure make my day.

The Wellbeing and Wonder of Whack


Pick a noun – any noun, ‘doesn’t matter which one.
If it’s whack that it’s lacking, know where to get some.
There’s a town that has oodles – an infinite source.
It’s an attitude bred in the psyche, of course,
Not an actual place that’s devoid of scum.
If your thing’s out of whack, go to Whackville for fun!

There’s a drought on abundance?  Well, how would one know?
By lack of accessories on shopping carts claimed?
Or maybe by facts hocked and spit on the street
For beggars to stare at while trying to eat…
Can I eat with the homeless and not feel ashamed?
Something seems out of whack; that’s the reason to go

To Whackville intent to cop copious supplies
Of the purest, most wholesome whack under the sun.
From there, I can see there is nothing amiss.
Every actor on stage knows to strut into bliss.
When returning from Whackville, my task is near done.
Spreading whack, I’ll lift spirits and roll a few eyes.








Lock your gaze on these glasses.  Now, what do you see?
Occipital lobules cajole in a dance
As the mind conjures meaning and fashions belief.
Is smegmatical messaging giving you grief?
If it were would your suffering earn you the chance
To dispense with all stale memes and set yourself free?

The glass, when half empty, is also half full.
Yet if uttered out loudly some ears would then perk.
The reason for this is there’s judgement involved.
When looked at it one way, it’s said one’s evolved.
When looked at the other, it’s said one’s a jerk.
This ‘assessment of attitude’ trick is pure bull!

There is contrast in life; it’s by nature’s design.
It is good to have vantage points less than ideal,
As they generate outlooks that make ourselves grow.
If we didn’t have bad days, then how would we know
How to deal with desire and carve out what’s real?
The glass is half yours, and it’s also half mine.

Complex of Inhibition

I can’t come to see you because I’m not there.
I know we do plan to meet often; it’s true,
But the fact that I’m not where you are anytime
Keeps defeating our meeting – a fool’s paradigm.
If I could just be there to be there with you
Then there’d be not an issue to craft and declare.

I suppose that I could just get up and go,
Heading in the direction to where you now are,
But, my goodness, the thought of not being there still
Does confound me quite deeply and stifles my will
To go any further.  I’m not up to par
For going and knowing not when to say no.

So, help me, dear friend.  Can I be there with you?
It’s not that I’m coy, or can’t find my way.
It’s just that I’m daft and deficient as some
Who can’t find a motive to best overcome
The inertia of living our lives come what may.
In a dance with resistance, my life becomes new.

America the Mutable

Oh beautiful for friendly skies
Kept safe as best we can
For politics and sports combined
So folks know there’s a plan
America! America! God has His eye on thee
As entertainment fills the air
From sea to raging sea

Oh beautiful for points of view
That show our colors well
For arrogance and much ado
What good is there to tell?
America! America… A frontier yet today
Performers swing inside the ring
And grimace as they play

Oh beautiful for lethal blows
And shots below the belt
As spirits reach the lowest lows
That ever had been felt
America! America! Don’t keep God up your sleeve
We can do good in brotherhood
The world will then believe

Oh beautiful for front row seats
At lively staged events
For caucuses and campaign feats
And polls that make no sense
My love for you is bitter sweet; by happenstance, I’m here
And when November comes around
I’ll vote and have no fear

Smart Assed Robin

I watched a robin after
an early morning rain
others dug for worms… bugs
this lucky one nabbed a baby
snake.  Such a battle so
long the bird has won
head sheared off
tucked away sound
the bird stares at me
another while
as if to say
“Yeah, I ate the son of a bitch; what’s it to ya?”

Depletion Region


A rat’s ass for a gift I received just today
From one of those scientists wanting my vote.
But electoral physics are quanta to me.
If I could but know them my mind would be free
To make a decision arrived at by rote.
Thanks for caring, dear carrier.  Speak what you may.  

The currency wanting through popular force
Is prevented from flowing to circuitry’s roots
The barrier’s there when no force is applied.
It gets even stronger when rights are denied.
Human Solid State nature has some attributes
That make issues of governance par for the course.

As the sides come to scrimmage which path does truth take?
Can grass-rooted bias the State overcome?
Our electors are carriers charged just the same
Whom can turn either way with protection from blame.
The process is like rocket science to some.
And for we the vast ignorant, our souls are at stake.

Wet Tuesday Night

When the heavens perspire and dampen the street
It’s a rainstorm that’s standard and run of the mill.
Precipitous prognostication aside,
A Wichita weatherman’s hope’s not denied.
There’s a downpour of wet stuff.  My gosh, what a thrill!
When they do call it right it’s a breath bated treat.

It don’t rain in this town much and I don’t know why.
The forecasts will tease you and mess with your brain.
They’ll tell you, “It’s coming; there’s bukus of chance.”
They’ll have your hopes harnessed and pre-poised to dance…
And then comes a mist puff – NOT torrents of rain.
Indeed when real storms occur, all thank the sky.

By the time that I finish this verse all will cease.
It’s much like the tropics how rain comes and goes.
This courtship of rain dance and man with a tool
Can often make forecaster look like a fool.
But we’re used to it all.  It is how nature shows
It’s the mother in charge.  We just suffer in peace.

Vetting Spree

Hasn’t anyone heard of a Vetting Spree?
Aren’t you bored with just shopping and watching TV?
A few troubled nations are helping us some.
What’s the matter with others?  Our best blessings come
When we’re aiding our fellows cast out like debris.
A great moat has evolved of the vast, raging sea.

We’d applaud the world media drowning you all
With our plight, had we free hands and some air to spare.
Perhaps no one knows what a drowning is like
But the will to survive, unlike riding a bike,
Will consume the soul wholly.  Does anyone care?
It is much like a lynching designed to enthrall.

I am better than seaweed and now it’s just me.
My family and friends have all drifted beyond.
Lungs are salt water packages shipped Next Day Air
From a world left behind in a pit of despair
To another one where no one needs to respond.
I’m worth vetting, then letting my humbled self be.

Blaine Hussein!

Blaine Hussein!  Life’s a tax on my brain.
When I pray to Allah ‘seems the Pope answers back
When I tell the man, “Go away; you’re not the one,”
He gawks at me sideways, the son of a gun.
Much ado about scripture… it’s hard to keep track.
Such a mess of a matrix; I’m driven insane.

We are all but a mixture of this thing and that.
Even cells that we are are not really our own.
And as thought forms become us, we’re well on our way
Toward believing enlightenment rules come what may.
Do I cling to my act like a dog on a bone?
Too many groups, it seems, know where ‘it’s’ at.

Blaine Hussein with no gain for an alien mane
Does dwell well among us as Jesus once did.
If you glance at a mirror you might see him there.
If you spot him in public, don’t shout, “Bomb; Beware!”
Don’t vote for a person hell bent to get rid
Of ‘those’ rag-headed weirdos so dark and arcane.

Fifty Ways To Move Your Matter

The problem is NOT inside your gut,” she says to me.
She nods her head as if she wants me to agree.
I’m backed up bucket loads; dear doctor, hear my plea.
There must be fifty ways to move your matter.

I’ve seen the X-rays; there’s no problem I can find.
Your labs are normal – no disease of any kind.”
I’m hooked on laxatives; they’re always on my mind.
There must be fifty ways to move your matter…
…Fifty ways to move your matter.

Take command of the can, Stan.
Don’t rattle your brain, Blaine.
You just have to believe, Steve,
That your body’s in charge.
Put your mind in a trance, Lance.
Let that snake do its dime dance.
Your resistance must go, Mo,
And then you will flow.”

Just slam dunk the can, Stan.
Prop up your feet, Pete.
Stuff is bound to deploy, Roy.
Nothing’s wrong; you will see.
It’s much like a boa, Noah,
In consort with good protozoa.
Brace yourself for a thrill, Bill,
You’ll be crapping with glee.”

Alas, how rather simple your advice does seem to me.
My ailing rubber hose is clogged with play dough; can’t you see?
I fear that I will reach the point of bowel catastrophe.
There must be fifty ways to move your matter.

My friend, I think another pill will do no good.
Your body’s putting up a fight, indeed as well it should.
When you let loose the shock will surely rock the neighborhood.
I know there’s fifty ways to move your matter…
…Fifty ways to move your matter….”