Hey Joel!

Why dontcha put all your pomes ina book for us to buy...  I'd buy one if
they were all f(p)unny like that...

Joel Walker wrote:

> well, i haven't gotten time and energy to write any new stuff for a
> long time, so this is all rehashing stuff that's already been
> 'published' once or twice. what the heck ... :)
>
> it's Klassical Poultry!!! makes you wanna run right back and retake
> that English Literature course you suffered through! ;)
>
>   Depictus??
>       by Billie Ernie Hindleg
>
>   Under the bus that carries me,
>     Black as the grease on CV balls,
>   I thank whatever gods may be
>     For my decrepit overalls.
>
>   Smudges from axles, loosely gripped;
>     I have not flinched nor cried aloud
>   As blood from my knuckles (socket slipped)
>     Has colored the surface of this shroud.
>
>   Above these spots and greasy smears
>     Are streak-ed paints of different shade,
>   And stains of ketchup, mustard, beers ...
>     I wear them proudly, unafraid.
>
>   It matters not how loud the gripe
>     From friends or neighbors, wives, et al ...
>   I will not wash, though they be ripe,
>     These funky stinking overalls.
>
>   Elegy Written on a Country Junkyard
>         by Thomas Gray Metallic
>
>   The setting sun defines the end of day,
>     As doors and windows close against the night,
>   When tools and parts are left just where they lay,
>     For easy use tomorrow at first light.
>
>   The cursing fades, the laughter ceases now,
>     In ones and twos, the men are gone away.
>   Old Sol is slow to take his final bow
>     As insects tune themselves and start to play.
>
>   It matters not the model nor the year
>     Nor cost of purchase when the cars were new,
>   For like a graveyard, all will enter here
>     To rust beneath the sun and morning dew.
>
>   But there are some whose Karma reaches far
>     To kindred souls, for help to cheat the grave;
>   And whether whole, or parted out, they are
>     Extending lives upon the road they crave.
>
>   For these, the kindred few, this yard is not
>      A place wherein some dread should make them shy;
>   Not like a graveyard, with decay and rot,
>      But more a warehouse, open to the sky.