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More Doggerel
by WFH

Pain and Suffering

Last week I had an accident
When I was changing lanes;
My car was totaled by a truck,
There's little that remains.

No one was hurt, no medics came,
Passers-by were quite amazed.
At home my phone rang off the hook
And left me somewhat dazed.

The calls were all from lawyers who
Proposed to file a suit,
To collect for injuries and pain
And negligence to boot.

The chance to make a bundle is
Most pleasing you'll agree
With absolutely no expense,
Just a contingent fee.

The fee will be one-half the award;
It really should be less,
But I don't care, it's free to me;
Consider my distress.

My old back ache seems slightly worse
Now since that freeway flap;
The lawyer tells me I should wear
A special shoulder strap.

How kind the injury lawyers are;
They work so hard to bring
Fair play and compensation for
Our pain and suffering. 

Tough Luck Desperado

There once was a tough desperado
Whose den was a well-supplied grotto.
He was known for unrivaled bravado,
So long as he wasn't plain blotto.

He was seen at the bull fight arena,
Now and then in a lonely cantina.
Some thought him a real mean hyena;
To catch him, there was a subpoena.

The guy could be pretty darn scary
When he hit the camp commissary,
For whoever reacted contrary
Could soon lead a life sedentary.

While planning his own El Dorado,
His cello he played pizzicato;
At times he would switch to legato,
Though sadly knew naught of vibrato.

He yearned for a young ballerina
Who had taken the name Catalina.
She said she was from Argentina,
But in truth came from South Pasadena.

That maid he decided to carry
Away to his crude sanctuary,
But she turned out to be Typhoid Mary,
And the hombre they soon had to bury.
But don't search Boot Hill cemetery,
For this nonsense is quite legendary.

The Classified Ad

The itch to travel, I had it real bad,
Until I discovered this classified ad,
That proposes a junket to ancient Baghdad,
With an option to probe the pleasures of Chad.

The offer's not valid for any young lad,
But only a lady who's stunningly clad,
Or a shapely, impulsive, and bold undergrad,
Especially one not inclined to get mad.

It's clear what he wants is an ardent comrade,
  Who's ready to indulge in some amorous fad, 
Starting no doubt at his own private pad;
Whoever responds is sure to be had!

You can see that he's just a despicable cad...
But you already know my itch is real bad,
And traveling alone would make me feel sad,
So I'll join him - but ONLY as far as Baghdad.

The Perfect Poem

I can't believe my poem is done:
Its rhyming couplets all hard-won,
A four-beat meter nicely paced,
With quatrain stanzas in good taste,

Images vivid and symbols vague,
Inversions avoided like the plague,
Metaphors neatly sprinkled around,
Hoping readers find them profound,

Spirited phrases, some roughhewn,
Like harvest moon and roses in June,
Cleanly cleared of classic cliches,
Modest use of alliterative plays.

I worked overtime to get it just right,
Indeed lost plenty of sleep last night.
The only problem I hadn't forseen:
My perfect poem - what does it mean?

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