Who says a hit man can't be a poet?
I found a cat upon my lap,
one weekend on the couch,
and I felt rather cross at this;
its claws made me cry “ouch!”
I’ve always hated cats, you see,
because they have those claws,
and if a cat sits on my lap
some blood it always draws.
A cat might sit in seven laps,
all scattered through a room,
and not draw blood ’till me, the eigth;
they always bring me doom.
And so I tore the beast away
and tossed it on the mat.
It’s best, I think, to be quite firm,
don’t let it be a brat.
One dreary day when I was beat,
and hadn’t had my tea,
I needed something warm and hot;
caffeine to set me free.
And so I dragged my feet from work
down to this shop I know.
A shop where I’ve a friend who works,
who makes the coffee flow.
She made me something spicy-hot
that steamed from liquid, black,
and when I looked inside the cup
a heart was looking back.
A heart she’d made of cinnamon,
to give the drink some love,
it made that drink warm up my day
much better than some gloves.
A pal once went to Africa
and brought me back a gift.
A statue of a wand’ring man
that sets my mind adrift.
It makes me think of dusty shoes
and t-shirts soaked with sweat.
Of scrubby desert, wide and hot,
where life is just a bet.
I keep that statue by my desk,
at work among my plants,
so when I’m stressed I still can dream
of Africa’s expanse.
What would I give to fly away,
and stand atop a dune?
A dune in blazing Africa,
out in the sun at noon?
The answer is I’d give it all,
it doesn’t matter what.
I want to be in Africa,
I know it in my gut.
I’ve known it for a decade, passed,
since pimples splotched my face.
And since I found this dream of mine,
toward Africa I’ve raced.
I got distracted on the way,
by jobs and cars and school.
Big chunks of time I threw away;
I was a little fool.
But in my mind is Africa,
and it won’t go away.
It’s time to give up all my plans,
and leave when first I may.
I knew a chap, back way before,
we hung out all the time.
We loved the cards and dice and books,
and frozen cheesecake, fine.
We rode our bikes to card shops, dark,
we talked of girls a lot.
Our clothes were baggy, black, and spiked,
our music pushed the brain to rot.
But see, this pal was really smart,
and off to schools he flew.
While at these schools he met a girl,
and then my friend was two.
She is a girl who’s kind, for sure,
and spirits she does lift,
so even though my homie’s hitched,
I wouldn’t say he’s whipped.
They are a pair you’d wish to be,
and as two friends they rock.
I’m stoked to keep them both as pals
while we wind down life’s clock.
Belated congratulations on your wedding old buddy! Your other gift is on its way.
In my endless search for warmth
I took a friend to lunch.
A friend who’d been to Africa
and could both talk and munch.
She talked of trips to Senegal,
a place she said was hot,
where people all were colorful
and talked to you a lot.
A place where you could haggle hard
before you paid a bill,
except with fruit, apparently,
whose prices all stayed still.
A place where busses weren’t the way
that people got around.
Instead they somehow shared these cars
whose schedules can’t be found.
It sounded like a friendly place,
where people make life work,
with energy and culture, thick,
with sun instead of murk.
And when the next day came around
I couldn’t shake the thought
that I could go to Senegal;
a place they say is hot.
So straight away I got some books
and started flipping through,
and now it sure seems awfully like
this thought just might be true.
I have a ticket to a show,
well, really I have two,
and if you’d like a date with me
I’ll give the spare to you.
Take a chance and come along,
my bet’s on a success.
I’ve always thought we’d make a pair,
and that I must confess.
At end of week when you are beat,
but want to leave the house,
you’re best to dress with flair and class,
and don’t look like a mouse.
A bit of flair will pick you up
while class will smooth you out.
Your ruffled nerves from days of work
will quickly lose their clout.
And as a man with ruffled nerves,
who ends his weeks quite beat,
I’ve tested lots of things to wear
that turn up style’s heat.
The ascot is the thing you want,
it trumps the rest for class.
And on a Friday night that’s cold
it’s flair without the sass.
So pick an ascot, dark or bright,
and let it take you out
to places that are warm and loud;
it’s fun, without a doubt.
There was a sunny desert hot
where I’d be sweating soon.
I had no plans for coming back,
my home would be a dune.
And in the airport where I stood
the lines were really long.
I shuffled through the hours slow
and hummed a little song.
And while I hummed that little song
I thought about a friend.
A friend who wasn’t coming with;
our duo, at an end.
I’d hoped to see her one more time,
before I flew away,
but as my bags were checked and scanned
I knew there was no way.
I’d waited in the lobby, packed,
as long as I could wait,
and then I’d passed on through the checks
and headed toward my gate.
But as the lobby passed from view
I turned for one last look.
And there among the people, thick,
my friend waved with a book.
I couldn’t make it back in time,
the crowd moved like a slug,
and so I looked her in the eye
and pantomimed a hug.
