Apple doesn't like listing me as "Will Shakespeare (poetry blogger)"
to differentiate me from the other guy, although everybody else does.
They took my first book but now won't take new ones. (Go figure.)
Since Smashwords distributes my books to Apple anyway,
just go to my Smashwords author page and download EPUBs from there.
Smashwords provides samples of my books also.

Monday, July 30, 2012

Got Myself a Virus

Ain't been feeling right
Moving 'round the house se-
Doctor says I got myself a virus

Had to get some help
'Cause I'm tired of feeling
Of diseases I am not desirous

Chicken soup just ain't
My thing
Pressure got my sinus
Kleenex ain't enough, I need papyrus

Cough drop pizza on
The way
Trying to get better
Don't know how I got myself a virus

I ain't gonna stay
I am tired of feeling
Hey, it's gone! I don't got no more virus…

So keep your distance or else!

Friday, July 27, 2012

Marin Made a Marinade

Marin made a marinade
To tenderize the chicken.
She promised us her spicy bath
Would make it finger-lickin'.

Her "hot tub" had a scorching mix
Of flavors so unstable
It bubbled like a cauldron when
She set it on the table.

With Habanero peppers and
Some fresh Tabasco sauce,
The rest of us just backed away—
We knew this cause was lost.

When Marin put the chicken in,
I'm sure I heard it moan!
Such cruelty's not something any
Good chef would condone.

In time, a saggy soggy fowl
Was lifted from her dipping.
Its baggy skin, like double chins,
Swung freely and was dripping.

We noticed, where the drippings splashed,
A puff of smoke would rise—
And then the bird exploded into
Flame before our eyes!

We tried a fire extinguisher;
The conflagration grew.
We called the fire department;
There was nothing they could do.

The State Department came and took
The marinade away.
Apparently such weapons
Aren't created everyday.

As thanks, we got a brand new house
And Mama loves the looks!
Their only stipulation is
That Marin never cooks.

So Marin changed her hobby and
She made not one complaint.
But now I've got to run—you see,
I've heard she's mixing paint!

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Tomato, Tomahto

If I say "tomato"
And you say "tomahto,"
I guess there's nothing wrong.

If I say "potato"
And you say "potahto,"
I suppose we'll get along.

If my cheese is grated
And your cheese is grahted,
My thoughts may go unsaid...

But if I want a waiter
And you call for water…
What's wrong inside your head?

Monday, July 23, 2012


For reasons I can't fathom,
City folks think they're at war.
They choose a mode of transport
Better suited for the Corps.

Admittedly, a Hummer's great
When potholes line your street.
If you like hopping medians
And curbs, it's pretty sweet.

You always find a parking place
The second you appear—
The normal cars all scatter 'cause
They know you're parking HERE!

But Hummers seem impractical
For daily use in town.
I don't see why those people need
A tank to get around.

They need an elevator just
To reach the driver's seat.
It's hard to wash the windows
And they're too wide for the street.

They never take them off the road
Since that would get them dirty.
The only combat most will see
Is traffic at 5:30.

Yes, modern roads are dangerous
And urban life is war…
But no one needs a Hummer just
To run down to the store.

So even if its gas bill
Doesn't leave you destitute,
It's overkill for any town…
Unless your town's Beirut.

Friday, July 20, 2012

Tour de Trance

Not all tiring races are run in France.
Perhaps tonight he'll dope with sleeping pills!

He wanders up and down the hall
The carpet muffles each footfall
He's on the Tour de Trance

He circles through the house each night
Without the aid of guides or lights
He's on the Tour de Trance

He climbs the stairwell Pyrenees
He stubs his toes and bangs his knees
But dons the yellow B.V.D.s
He's won the Tour de Trance

Then morning comes—it's time to rise
He's still worn out; with bleary eyes
He leaves the house; it's no surprise
All day he'll celebrate his prize
For last night's Tour de Trance

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

The Murder at Muffet's Place

The prosecutor asked the girl,
"Ms. Muffet, on that day
Did you not sit upon a tuffet
Eating curds and whey?"

"Indeed I did," Ms. Muffet said
And daubed away a tear.
"I thought I'd found a private place
To dine and feel no fear."

The prosecutor's eyebrow raised.
"You thought you were alone?"
Ms. Muffet nodded. "I would not
Have stayed if I had known

That horrid creature waited there.
He stalked me. It's a curse
That women such as I must face.
Each day's a little worse."

"Ms. Muffet, please—" the trial judge said
"—a simple 'yes' or 'no'
Is all we need. And Counselor,
Please get on with this show."

"Yes, sir," the prosecutor said.
"Ms. Muffet, tell the court
About the confrontation. Seems
The two of you made sport."

"MADE SPORT?" the outraged Muffet cried.
"I call that molestation!
He put eight nasty hands on me
Despite my protestation!"

He said, "That's when you murdered him."
A statement, not a question.
Ms. Muffet knew the jig was up;
He wanted her confession.

"Alright," she said. "I took his life—
But don't be so judgmental.
I tried to run and dropped my bowl;
T'was purely accidental."

The prosecutor faced the bench.
"Your Honor, I suggest
She pay the strictest penalty.
The prosecution rests."

The judge just sighed. "You waste my time
With trivial concerns.
She killed a stupid spider, man—
Forget it! Court's adjourned."

Monday, July 16, 2012

Dust Bowl Salad Days

Searching for some "up" thoughts during the drought.

I think that I shall never see
A plant as dusty as my tree.
Its leaves have gone from green to brown;
And though they haven't fallen down
They don't respond to all the water
I apply, although they oughter.
I raised it from a tiny sapling
Now its leaves look old, with dappling.
Still I hope for showers of rain;
A downpour now would ease its pain.

The dry times always take their toll
I guess, and leave us looking old;
But if we manage to survive
For long enough, the rains arrive,
The seasons turn, and life renews
Itself. Can old dry leaves refuse
To fall? Can brittle limbs still cling
To hopes of a freely-flowing stream?
Such questions fill my thoughts in times
Of drought like this, and often primes
Me for the question brought by flood—
Is dust a coating worse than mud?

Friday, July 13, 2012

The Last Potato Chip

Sometimes only potato chips will do.

I ate a few potato chips
It's hard to eat just one
I ate them while I watched the game
And soon the bag was done

I opened up another bag
And finished that one too
But now the cupboard's empty and
The corn chips just won't do

The pretzels just taste bland to me
The popcorn's not enough
Now halftime's nearly over
And I'm stuck with cheesy puffs

There's no time for a grocery run
So what's a fan to do?
No matter how the game plays out
I lose, because it's true:

There's nothing in the house that goes
With avocado dip
And no such thing as victory
Without potato chips

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

The Roomer Has It

Inspired by Adele's song "Rumour Has It."

So some of your stuff is missing
Haven't you heard the roomer
Talking about your stuff
Talking about how nice it is
Talking about how you've got too much for just one person
Everything's a trade-off
You let a stranger pay his way into your house
The roomer has it
He's the one who's taken your stuff

So some of your stuff is missing
It's hard to stop a roomer once he starts
No matter how careful you are
No matter how much you screen them
No matter how many questions you ask before you rent
Everything's a trade-off
If you want my opinion
The roomer has it
You're the one he's taken it from

There's no doubt about it
The roomer has it
And I want my stuff back before he takes it too

Monday, July 9, 2012

Schrödinger's Cat II (aka The Kitty Paradox)

Kitty sleeps behind the door
On his favorite chair.
Kitty sleeps up on the steps;
A heating vent is there.
Kitty curls up on the couch,
Feet up in the air,
Or drapes himself across the bed.
He dozes everywhere!
I never see him move around.
When does he leave the "gifts" I've found?

Friday, July 6, 2012

21st Century Batman

The Batphone rings. The Commissioner's mad;
I’m late for work. I fly out of my cave,
Bat eyes blinded by the bright morning light,
And stub my toe on the doorjamb. My cape
Isn’t ironed because Alfred's on vacation.
I leap into my ancient Batmobile,
Coax the atomic batteries to power
And the turbines to speed, buckle my seatbelt,
And sputter downtown where I pay to park
Several blocks from the Commish’s office.
Once there, the Commissioner chews me out
Before giving me a paycut. “More work,
Less goofing off,” he says, dismissing me.
For this I spent countless years training hard
And more pocket change than I care to count.
Maybe I should reconsider the Joker’s
Offer. He even covers damaged Batsuits.

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Snap, Crackle, Pop

They came in a box
From the local Walmart.
They can't compete
With the pro's shows
But who really cares?
Freedom's expensive
So we'll cut corners
On the fireworks this year.
It's one of the rights
Our heroes paid for.

Snap crackle pop
Is a tasty dessert
After burgers.
Freedom always
Leaves a good
Taste in your mouth.

Monday, July 2, 2012

Atheist's Grace

I think this one's self-explanatory.

God, we don't believe you're there;
If you were, we wouldn't care.
See this food we're eating now?
We don't thank you anyhow.