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This Post Goes Out, Especially to David Girvan
Be it Facebook, Google, Social Media;
I believe we all agree,
at very best, they'll change your post;
then sit back; laugh with glee;
and try to steal what strikes them most.
This is how the poems appeared, when first i published them.
INTERESTINGLY: All are lesser known poems of Robert Service--the True, Ayrshire Poet.
My Bear
I never killed a bear because
I always thought them critters was
So kindo’ cute;
Though round my shack they often came,
I’d raise my rifle and take aim,
But couldn’t shoot.
Yet there was one full six-feet tall
Who came each night and gobbled all
The grub in sight;
On my pet garden truck he’d feast,
Until I thought I must at least
Give him a fight.
I put some corn mush in a pan;
He lapped it swiftly down and ran
With bruin glee;
A second day I did the same,
Again with eagerness he came
To gulp and flee.
The third day I mixed up a cross
Of mustard and tobacco sauce,
And ginger too,
Well spiced with pepper of cayenne,
Topped it with treacled mush, and then
Set out the brew.
He was a huge and husky chap;
I saw him shamble to the trap,
The dawn was dim.
He squatted down on his behind,
And through the cheese-cloth window-blind
I peeked at him.
I never saw a bear so glad;
A look of joy seraphic had
His visage brown;
He slavered, and without suspish-
-lon hugged that horrid dish,
And swilled it down.
Just for a moment he was still,
Then he erupted loud and shrill
With frantic yell;
The picket fence he tried to vault;
He turned a double somersault,
And ran like hell.
I saw him leap into the lake,
As if a thirst of fire to slack,
And thrash up foam;
And then he sped along the shore,
And beat his breast with raucous roar,
And made for home.
I guess he told the folks back there
My homestead was taboo for bear
For since that day,
Although my pumpkins star the ground,
No other bear has come around,
Nor trace of bruin have I found,
-Well, let me pray
No Sourdough
To be a bony feed Sourdough
You must, by Yukon Law,
Have killed a moose,
And robbed a sluice,
AND BUNKED UP WITH A SQUAW….
Alas! Sourdough I’ll never be.
Oh, sad is my excuse:
My shooting’s so damn bad, you see….
I’ve never killed a moose
Strip Teaser
My precious grand-child aged two,
Is eager to unlace one shoe,
And then the other;
Her cotton socks she’ll deftly doff
Despite the mild reproaches of
Her mother.
Around the house she loves to fare,
And with her rosy tootsies bare,
Pit-pat the floor;
And though remonstrances we make
She presently decides to take
Off something more.
Her pinafore she next unties,
And then before we realise,
Her dress drops down;
Her panties and her brassiere,
Her chemise and her underwear
Are round her strown.
And now she dances all about,
As naked as a new-caught trout,
With impish glee;
And though she’s beautiful like that,
(A cherubim, but not so fat).
Quite shocked are we.
And so we dread with dim dismay
Some day she may her charms display
In skimpy wear;
Aye, even in a gee-string she
May frolic on the stage of the
Folies-Bergère
But e’er she does, I hope she’ll read
This worldly wise and warning screed,
That to conceal,
Unto the ordinary man
Is often more alluring than
To ALL reveal
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