Posts filed under “Poetry”
From DR. BOLI’S ALPHABET OF OCCUPATIONS.
Y for the Yes-man, who longs to say “no”;
Alas and alack, in his job it’s prohibited.
Original thought
Is not what he’s here for,
So let’s give a cheer for
The Yes-man who really would like to say “no,” but does not.
The job is a hard one, as Yes-men all know:
His private opinions may not be exhibited.
His job is to say
What his bosses will pay for,
So let’s say hooray for
The Yes-man who’d rather say “no,” but says “yes” anyway.
From DR. BOLI’S ALPHABET OF OCCUPATIONS.
X for the Xylotomist, whose specialized profession
Is cutting bits of wood to fit into a microscope.
It’s more than just a job, she worries—now it’s an obsession.
She thinks she has become, she tells us, holding back her tears,
A xylotomic addict—maybe even worse, she fears—
And now, she says, to go cold turkey is her only hope.
But then who’ll cut our bits of wood to fit our microscope?
From DR. BOLI’S ALPHABET OF OCCUPATIONS.
In Honor of the Letter W,
A Hymn to the Worker.
The Worker! How we love to sing his praises!
The Worker! How we hate to give him raises!
We praise him as the fount of every virtue,
And also ’cause his union pals can hurt you.
The Worker! He’s the hero of our story!
The Worker! His the fame and his the glory!
We gladly pay him tribute every Mayday,
As long as we don’t have to every payday.
It’s really best, although it may seem funny,
That he should work, and we should get the money:
For ’tis a truth that cannot be ignored
That Virtue ought to be its own reward.
AN APPLICATION FOR THE POST OF POET LAUREATE OF KIRIBATI.
SEVERAL YEARS AGO, Dr. Boli heard of a young man who had the bright idea of applying for the position of poet laureate to the island nation of Kiribati. Much to Dr. Boli’s surprise, the young man’s proposal was accepted. What added to Dr. Boli’s surprise was the fact that the young man, whose idiom was decidedly colloquial, obviously did not know how to pronounce the name “Kiribati,” which Dr. Boli would have thought would be one of the few requirements for his position. Dr. Boli therefore wrote this poem in response, not to compete for the position of poet laureate, but merely for the wholly laudable purpose of showing that he knows how to pronounce “Kiribati,” which the rhyme scheme makes abundantly evident. This is the poem that the poet laureate of Kiribati ought to have written.
Havin’ once seen a Polynesian lass
Who danced in a grass skirt without a top on,
I’m startin’ to believe that Kiribati
Is just the sort of isle I’d like to stop on.
So if you don’t mind payin’ me for sittin’
And writin’ poems (I’m hopin’ that you don’t),
For ten bucks each, I’ll read you what I’ve written—
Or, better yet, for twenty bucks, I won’t.
From DR. BOLI’S ALPHABET OF OCCUPATIONS.
V for the amateur Violinist,
Whose tone (regrettably) was the thinnest
That ever was heard from a violin.
You never heard anything quite so thin.
It was thinner than twigs or the legs of plovers,
Thinner than models on magazine covers;
Thinner than greyhounds, thinner than whippets;
Thinner than hairs or the tiniest snippets
Of fur from a vole or a shrew or a bat:
Whatever you think, it was thinner than that.
At last, one day, his friends took him aside
And explained why they all seemed to run and hide
Whenever he reached for his violin.
And when, in the end, their advice had sunk in,
He finally put his fiddle to bed
And took up the theremin instead.
FROM DR. BOLI’S ALPHABET OF OCCUPATIONS.
U is for the Undertaker, grave and solemn.
(But you should have seen her at Laurel Ridge, skiing the slalom.)
Nothing can disturb her dignified expression.
(On Saturday night, though, she tosses aside self-possession.)
Always she refrains from merriment too hearty.
(But you should have heard how she giggled last night at the party.)
She prepares the dead for their eternal slumber.
(She’s lots of fun after hours, though. Here, I’ll give you her number.)
From DR. BOLI’S ALPHABET OF OCCUPATIONS.
T is for the Tennis Star.
No matter what you do or are,
Your job is more enjoyable by far
Than being just a plain old tennis star.
His work is dull monotony in the extreme;
His duties no more complicated than they seem:
He whacks the ball hard as he can across the court, and then,
As soon as it comes back to him, he whacks the ball again.
And yet his job is necessary, though it seems there’s nothing to it:
For if he didn’t hit the ball, some other fool would have to do it.
From DR. BOLI’S ALPHABET OF OCCUPATIONS.
S is for the Social Worker,
Grim and worried,
Flustered, flurried,
Solving problems left and right,
Staying up to work all night—
Who dares call the Social Worker
Lazy slob or idle shirker?
Bring your problems to this man:
He will solve them if he can.
Griping, grumbling,
Shambling, stumbling—
Frankly, if the truth were known,
He has problems of his own.
From DR. BOLI’S ALPHABET OF OCCUPATIONS.
R for the Rainmaker, scanning the sky
To see whether any dark clouds have come by—
Completely convinced that his work’s not in vain, yet
To tell you the truth, he still hasn’t made rain yet.
From DR. BOLI’S ALPHABET OF OCCUPATIONS.
Q for the Quality-Control Inspector—vital man
In charge of seeing that these rhymes pass his evaluation.
“I’m not too strict,” he says, “and I’ll support you when I can,
But some things I cannot allow to pass examination.
“Turning to A,
What can I say?
You shouldn’t print polemics
Against the works
And tenured perks
Of harmless academics.
“The little rhyme for letter B just might insult a baker:
I think you should display a little more consideration.
And think of the Prime Minister! Your little jabs might shake her,
Thus compromising her ability to run the nation.
“And as for Q,
It just won’t do.
Such rot drips from your pen!
I think you ought
To scrap the lot
And start them all again.”