Tag: Poems
English Is A Crazy Language
There is no egg in the eggplant,
No ham in the hamburger
And neither pine nor apple in the pineapple.
English muffins were not invented in England,
French fries were not invented in France.
We sometimes take English for granted, but if we examine its paradoxes we find that:
Quicksand takes you down slowly,
Boxing rings are square,
And a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.
If writers write, how come fingers don’t fing?
If the plural of tooth is teeth,
Shouldn’t the plural of phone booth be phone beeth?
If the teacher taught,
Why hasn’t the preacher praught?
If a vegetarian eats vegetables,
What the heck does a humanitarian eat?
Why do people recite at a play,
Yet play at a recital?
Park on driveways and
Drive on parkways?
How can the weather be as hot as hell on one day
And as cold as hell on another?
You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language where a house can burn up as it burns down,
And in which you fill in a form
By filling it out
And a bell is only heard once it goes!
English was invented by people, not computers,
And it reflects the creativity of the human race
(Which of course isn’t a race at all.)
That is why:
When the stars are out they are visible,
But when the lights are out they are invisible.
And why it is that when I wind up my watch
It starts,
But when I wind up this poem
It ends.
An Ode To Old Age
There’s quite an art to falling apart as the years go by,
And life doesn’t begin at 40. That’s a big fat lie.
My hair’s getting thinner, my body is not;
The few teeth I have are beginning to rot.
I smell of Vick’s-Vapo-Rub, not Chanel # 5;
My new pacemaker’s all that keeps me alive.
When asked of my past, every detail I’ll know, But what was I doing 10 minutes ago?
Well, you get the idea, what more can I say?
I’m off to read the obituary, like I do every day;
If my names not there, I’ll once again start –
Perfecting the art of falling apart
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