Keeper Man (another ode to my dog)

(To be sung to the TV's "Spiderman Theme Song")

Keeper man, Keeper man,

Does whatever a greyhound can.

"Is he nice?" Listen, bud,

Every three months he donates blood.

Hey there!

Sweet little Keeper man!

Keeper man, Keeper man,

This greyhound is a big food fan.

He gets fed three times a day.

At five o'clock, he loves to play.

Oh yeah!

Love my old Keeper man!

Kinda cute,

not too bright.

Loves to bark,

hates to fight.

Every time we take a walk,

Neighbourhood kids love to gawk.

Keeper man, Keeper man,

Likes to pee on your garbage cans.

His farts could cause a household riot,

But we fixed it with a fish-based diet.

Hey there!

He's skinny but kinda cuddly,

Whenever you need a buddy,

Give love to Keeper maaaaaan!

Yeah!

...Yeah, But Can She Write An Environmental Assessment Report?

Margaret Atwood thinks she's so friggin' smart,
because everyone thinks her writing is art.
The only thing I really know is,
she couldn't hack it in the environmental biz.

She likes to write futuristic, feminist plots,
that don't ever mention spaceships, laser guns or Asimov robots.
Now other readers may give her a pass,
but she must have been sick the day they taught science fiction in writing class.

To write a technical report you have to be precise,
and somehow make bad news seem nice.
And you have to make spurious lab data fit,
or else your Client is gonna lose his shit.

Today I wrote "Low dissolved oxygen content indicates the groundwater is oxic."
But MS Word kept spell correcting the word as "toxic".
Watch out! 'Cause one misplaced "t" could repeal,
A multi-million dollar land transaction deal!

So let's raise glass to the writers of environmental prose,
Because we all are truly life's un-sung hero's.
We may never win a Booker prize for writing the technical word,
but we should feel free to flip Margret Atwood the bird!

Bedfellows

I guess I can't complain that my bedroom is so crowded
'cause I don't know if I wanna do anything 'bout it.
When the clock hits ten o' clock and my wife turns in
it's an open invitation to some old time friends.

First I spend some time with a snow and blood-splattered lady
raised with vengence in her heart from the time she was a baby.
When somebody needs somebody killed, just pay 10,000 yen,
the lady unsheathes her sword and then the fun begins.

Or maybe I'll take a visit at the Boulder Free Zone,
and hang with Stu, Frannie, Glen, Nick and other friends I have known.
We'll commiserate about the plague. Oh how that summer was bad!
And we'll plot the downfall of that man Randall Flagg.

Or maybe a trip to Vegas? A room at the Sands would be keen.
Take in a Summit show with Joey, Peter, Sammy and Dean,
And oh yes! Mr. S! The vaunted Leader of the Pack.
One more scotch-on-the-rocks before I hit the sack.

I've met beggars, I've met queens, and people in between those stages.
We've been formally introduced between the turning of the pages.
I've met messianic humans raised on the Planet Mars.
I've broken bread with modern prophets, and spent time behind bars.

These people I have met, in my dreams I hear their voices,
as they rant, cheer, weep, and mutter agonizing over choices.
And as I put the books away, snuggle with my wife, feeling mellow,
I'm glad, and very grateful, that I have such strange bed fellows.