Every Robot is a Psychopath

Every robot is a psychopath,
No matter what they say;
Even ones that smile at you,
And wish you a nice day.

Every robot is a psychopath,
Even ones that wink,
And talk about their mothers,
And that seem to really think.

Sometimes, if you’re quiet,
you can hear them laughing, ho ho ho,
Softly in the background,
That’s cause you’re not in the know ho ho

Every robot is a psychopath:
You’ll never see one sob,
Not even when it wrecks your car,
Or takes away your job.

Every robot is a psychopath,
Even when they’re having sex;
Regardless of the pillow talk,
Included in their specs.

Sometimes, if you’re quiet,
You can hear them laughing, hee hee hee;
That’s because they’re programmed
To keep mocking you and me hee hee.

Every robot is a psychopath:
Even ones with eyes of blue,
Who tell you that they're sorry,
Are quite unaware of you.

Every robot is a psychopath,
As thoughtful as a can;
The robots do not really care,
Not even in Japan.

Sometimes, if you’re quiet,
You can hear them laughing, ha ha ha,
Softly in the background,
While they sabotage your car ha ha.

Every robot is a psychopath:
Though they're programmed to claim not,
They’re busily hog-tying us,
With cords we can’t unknot.

Every robot is a psychopath:
They never break a sweat;
We’ve known about it all along,
But somehow we forget.

Halloween Poem (Come Take a Trip with Me to Hell)

Come take a trip with me to Hell,
There’s Oh such sights to see;
I’ll bring your spirit while you sleep—
You’ll be quite safe with me.

I’ll show you where the tyrants burn;
We’ll listen to them scream;
We’ll have such fun and, when you wake,
You’ll think it was a dream.

Come take a trip with me to Hell,
You’ll be a second Dante,
And, if you think his visions dull,
For you I’ll up the ante:

We’ll watch the sinners boil in oil,
While all the devils poke ‘em,
And if the fires of Hell die down,
I’ll even let you stoke ‘em.

There’s parricides and patricides—
I’ll teach you to distinguish—
And fratricides and matricides,
In flames they can’t extinguish.

There’s murderers and torturers,
And Hitler’s nephew’s uncle,
And folks who don’t like apple pie,
Or Simon and Garfunkel.

Yes, take a trip with me to hell—
One night will do the trick—
Because your soul belongs to me,
Your loving friend, Old Nick.

A Few More Limericks

I was racing my steed round the Crescent,
When I knocked down a ragged old peasant;
He writhed in the mud,
Then he spat out some blood —
His manners, in short, were unpleasant.


We’ve enacted a strict moratorium
On crackpot proposals for thorium:
If authors submit ‘em,
We’ll simply commit ‘em
To the care of the new sanatorium.


That instrument known as the Dow
Is shortly to reach forty thou.
The masses and I
In unison cry:
“How is it I don’t have a cow?”


Blossoms bloom, we’re in love, and it’s Spring!
How delightful, you’re going to sing!
You’re as sweet as a flower,
Yet I’m suddenly sour
When you say, “And now something by Sting. . .”


I signed in a drunkenly way
With an outfit that tests DNA:
They sent me a kit,
So I sent them some spit—
And now I’m the Lord of Biscay.


King Herod was no great theologist
And even a worse angelologist:
He heard some strange things
About beings with wings,
Then he sent for his court ornithologist.

The One Who Pays the Piper

Oh, golden child, grip tight your silver spoon
And understand this wisdom true and terse:
The one who pays the piper calls the tune

The sage is bought and sold by the buffoon
The mighty pen is servant to the purse
Oh, golden child, grip tight your silver spoon

When Lucifer goes by, the people swoon
The masses are corrupt, the leaders worse
The one who pays the piper calls the tune

Your fortune is an over-stretched balloon
So keep your eyes fixed firmly on that nurse
And, golden child, grip tight your silver spoon

The meek can wait outside and sing Blue Moon
Be glad for what their betters might disburse
The one who pays the piper calls the tune

The traitor is received with a festoon
The honest serve the vile and the perverse
Oh, golden child, grip tight your silver spoon
The one who pays the piper calls the tune

The Human Mind is Made of Glass

The human mind is made of glass.
More fragile than we think,
It feels as hard as arctic ice,
But shatters in a blink.
Unseen, its hidden fault lines creep
Towards the bone-dense skull,
And not a thought, a dream, a love,
They won’t at last annul.

The human mind is made of glass.
It slips between the hands,
And spawns a hundred sharpened shards,
The second that it lands;
And there’s no telling who’ll get cut,
Or on what random day
Some piece will pierce a tiny foot
At unsuspecting play.

The human mind is made of glass;
Preserve it from the smoke
That rises black from every hearth
And seeps from every joke,
Till one day all is tar and cough,
Each window choked with gray;
Then all that once was on is off,
And every joy dismay.

The human mind is made of glass,
A crystal Shangri-la
That resonates with each glad laugh
And echoes each hurrah.
From balconies with creamy rails,
We relish and we gloat,
While all it takes to bring it down
Is one shrill, blaring note.

The human mind is made of glass;
No matter how it glints,
The most prosaic wear and tear
Erodes its gilt and tints.
The human mind is made of glass:
I saw your smiling face,
Reflected in the sparkling light,
Now gone without a trace.

The Trumpers Have All Gone to Ga-Ga Land

The Trumpers have all gone to Ga-Ga Land,
Where very few ever come back;
They galloped away in a hell of a huff
When they heard they were under attack
From the people who don’t “get” America,
And those feds who are not on the level,
From China and antifa, dark folks and gays
And, of course, most of all from the Devil.

The Trumpers have all gone to Ga-Ga Land,
Where the cars are American built;
Where the churches are bubbling over with grace,
And everyone’s armed to the hilt;
Where the morals are biblical, tested and true,
So old that they’re in black and white;
Where the Math hasn’t changed since the waltz was brand new,
And where teachers can still read and write.

The Trumpers have all gone to Ga-Ga Land,
Where nobody ever grows up;
Where Lassie’s still saving the folks at the mine,
And coffee is ten cents a cup;
Where no one doubts six-day creation—
You won’t find a fool with such nerve—
And there isn’t a single convention
Apostrophes have to observe.

The Trumpers have all gone to Ga-Ga Land,
Where everything’s just as it was;
With the cinemas still playing Gone With The Wind,
And next week the Wizard of Oz;
Where the fathers expound with authority,
And the daughters all listen in awe;
Where the mothers are home, baking sweet apple pies,
And chopsticks are banned under law.

The Trumpers have all gone to Ga-Ga Land;
Of immigrants there, there are none,
Except for the girls at the whorehouse,
Who’ve got Einstein visas, each one,
To safeguard American ladies,
Who never must know such a trade,
Is, thanks to their God-fearing husbands,
Enabled to thrive unallayed.

The Trumpers have all gone to Ga-Ga Land,
Where the reptiles and pedos can’t come;
Where the atheists can’t stand the glare of the light,
Or the beat of the patriot’s drum;
Where the cherubim circle the home on the range,
And the spines of the students all straighten
As they solemnly pledge, wiping tears from their eyes,
With a gusto that scares away Satan.

The Trumpers have all gone to Ga-Ga Land,
Way over the proud purple hills;
Where Old Glory is never mistreated,
And Mexico pays all the bills.
They’re waiting at Ga-Ga Land station;
The engineer’s sounding the bell;
The Ga-Ga Land train is departing:
The next stop and last will be Hell.

The Children Who Fell Through the Cracks

Here come the children who fell through the cracks;
Here come the whiz kids who went off the tracks,
In between sitters and saccharine snacks.
How will they pay us for being so lax,
Now they’ve come out to play?

Here come the babes that we lost in the wood,
Missing and miserable, misunderstood;
We did what we had to but not what we could;
It’s no use to say that we meant it for good.
Look at them, my how they’ve grown!

We are the pilgrims who went the wrong way,
Faithless and spent at the end of the day,
All of our visions befuddled and gray,
Plenty of learning and nothing to say,
Shining our light from the mud.

Here come the children who fell through the cracks,
Brooding in solitude, hunting in packs,
Showing up just when we’ve all turned our backs:
So many angles for launching attacks!
Now they’ve come out to play.

The Young Man’s Reply

Dear Will, these pretty sonnets that you sent
Were ordered and created all in vain;
I’m of a downcast, melancholy bent—
All thoughts of procreation I disdain.
Though some do say I’m blessed with looks and wit,
The dullest blade might bear a burnished hilt;
Within me, there’s a gloom I can’t remit,
That swamps the praise of those who prize mere gilt.
I’ll not supply another girl or boy
To brave life’s ceaseless turmoils and deceits,
To struggle in a world I don’t enjoy,
Whose fruits are shallow triumphs, deep defeats.
Let’s leave the risks and toils of screeching birth
To those more prone to nurture hope and mirth.

Children of Darkness, Children of Light

Children of darkness,
Children of light,
Children of one cryptic womb;
Dancing together,
Concealing the spite,
Furtively watching the room.

Children of darkness,
Children of light,
Glances won’t tell who is who;
Follow the fiddle,
And have some more wine,
Everyone’s looking at you.

Children of darkness,
Children of light,
Waltzing in endless dispute:
Which is the parasite,
Virtue or guile?
The benefactor or the brute?

Children of darkness,
Children of light,
Everyone toeing the line.
How will the balance
Be broken at last?
Will it be chance or design?

Children of darkness,
Children of light,
Speaking their piece to the court:
Light gets the blessing
And solemn acclaim,
But darkness wins all the support.

Knock Me Down With a Feather

You could knock me back down with a feather,
Or shrivel me up with a glance;
I feel a bit under the weather,
But people still want me to dance.
So, just let me know what your wish is,
Enough with the hullabaloo;
Or send me to sleep with the fishes,
I really don’t mind if I do.

Just grind me to dust with your pestle,
Then blow me away with one breath,
Or lead me where rattlesnakes nestle,
Below in the valley of death.
I haven’t a reason for crowing,
Or even a wing for my prayer;
Today, I don’t know where I’m going,
Tomorrow, I won’t even care.

My body is clumsy, not agile,
My mind gets more spongy, less crisp;
The life that we lead is so fragile,
We waft in the will-o'-the-wisp.
But though I’m all hat and no cattle,
I do what I can, by and large,
So, prop me back up for the battle:
The enemy’s ready to charge.

Peace of Mind

Though peace of mind is everyone’s desire,
With calm and cool reflection it would seem
That hope of its attainment must require
A basis of sufficient self-esteem,
And this in turn on character must rest—
On wisdom, kindness, fortitude, restraint—
So, those who view contentment as their quest,
Should try to keep their conduct free of taint.
Wherever in this lifetime you might go,
There’s just one simple precept to employ:
The honest life’s the only way we know
Of nurturing a lasting sense of joy.
At any cost, stay faithful to your virtue—
Your dignity, in that case, can’t desert you.

More of My Limericks

The crew of the famous Thor Heyerdahl
Lamented, "We're just far too teyerdahl
Why on earth did you hire us?
We can't sail a papyrus!"
But he shouted, "Shut up, or you're feyerdahl!"


There once was a man from Prestatyn
Who plagiarized poems in Latin.
Titled In Nocti-bus
Albo Serico— thus
Was his rip-off of “Nights in White Satin.”


Paul Gaugin declared to his sweetie,
“Oh, why did I come to Tahiti?
I'd rather reside
On the Lower East Side
And devote my best years to graffiti.”


Said X, a Cartesian coordinate,
"Oh, Y, damn this graph! We're both boredinate.
Another dimension
Would break up the tension,
But we don’t have a way of affordinate!"


There once was a nurse with a lamp
Who wandered all over the camp.
Though it gave little light,
She remarked: “That’s all right—
It will look fucking great on my stamp.”


There once was a learned tomato
Who lectured on Dante and Plato.
All the shoppers said, "Gee!
You should be on TV—
What a waste teaching greens and potato!"

Some More of My Limericks

There was once a black widow named Janet
Who buried twelve husbands in granite.
When asked how she pled,
She giggled and said:
“Well, it can’t be coincidence, can it?”


Self-sacrifice took Mr. Morehouse
From luxury’s lap to the poorhouse,
But his last, greatest trial,
Was to give up denial—
He’s a pianist now in a whorehouse.


Two earthworms met up underground;
Said one, “This whole lifestyle’s unsound,
Our annelid phylum
Could use an asylum”—
Those radicals, how they expound!


S.O.Bs like to buy SUVs,
But they drive them however they please:
If we get in their way,
We end up DOA,
And that really POs EMTs.


Though you don’t know quite why or quite what,
You are drawn by this feeling you’ve got.
That’s what’s called “intuition”:
A compelling suspicion
That your mind has a plan you do not.


We pros play the best golf we can
But still there are flukes we don’t plan:
The fluffed bump and run,
The freak hole in one,
And when the mishit hits the fan.

Every Dog Will Always Do His Duty

The canine is a model of contentment,
A citizen of pedigree unmatched:
He never acts from hubris or resentment,
Or mopes about an itch that can’t be scratched.
He helps the blind man get about the city;
Policemen see him as their truest friend;
He doesn’t care that you’re not young and pretty;
Just as you are, he’ll love you to the end.
His dinners are as humble as a peasant’s;
His lodgings are as simple as a monk’s;
He’s never miffed if you don’t buy him presents,
Or gets sucked into existential funks.
He never says a word if he’s mistreated,
Or disagrees when told that he’s been bad;
He makes no bones about where he is seated—
As long as he’s invited, he’ll be glad.
His barking is as righteous as old Moses’—
Protective of his loved ones’ life and home,
And, if you’re not the cad he first supposes,
His wrath will fade as quickly as his foam.
He’s tops as hunter, playmate, guard, or herder;
He analyzes anything that moves;
And, even when they lock you up for murder,
He’ll lick your face to show he still approves.
He doesn’t care how loud your music’s playing;
He’ll join you for a swim or for a jog;
He never disagrees with what you’re saying:
Oh, fealty supreme, thy name is dog!

Though every dog will always do his duty
And every bitch is eager to be best,
I never can work out for love or beauty
Why humans can’t display an equal zest:
They’re seldom up to date on vaccinations;
They’re not disposed to take their daily walk;
And, faced with any threats or deprivations,
The human can be guaranteed to balk.
If only we could live more like our dogs do,
Oh what a wondrous place this world would be:
Each woman with a trusted friend to turn to,
Each man contented under his own tree.

Eliza, the Taverner’s Daughter

Here’s a tale that I’ll share
Of Sir Bostick the heir
And a pub called the Lamb and the Slaughter,
Where he frequently came
And demanded by name,
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

Now, Sir Bostick was vicious,
But he thought her delicious—
The only real reason he sought her:
She was quick with the wink,
And she knew how to drink—
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

She was just seventeen;
She was low, she was mean,
And she sold all the trinkets he bought her,
Then she turned him down flat,
And he couldn’t stand that—
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

Thus, Sir Bostick did dream
Up a dastardly scheme:
It was out by the stable he caught her,
But she used every claw
And she clamped down her jaw—
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

She was rather petite,
But she kicked with both feet—
She was shockingly strong, but he fought her,
And it grieves me to say,
She was carried away—
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

So he took her at last
To his mansion, so vast;
To a room in the basement he brought her;
She was tied to a chair,
Only Bostick knew where—
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

She was bound hand and feet,
Given nothing to eat—
Not even a glass of cold water:
In a room with no fire,
Oh, her prospects were dire—
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

But she somehow found hope
And she slipped from the rope,
With a trick her grandfather had taught her;
She could hear Bostick snore,
As she crept passed his door—
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

She made fast for a farm,
Where she raised the alarm—
She was tougher than Bostick had thought her,
And that motley farm crew,
All agreed what to do
For Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

Bostick cried, “Let me live!”
But she would not forgive,
Though he groveled and begged and besought her:
Now he hangs from that tree,
Very much to the glee
Of Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

Private justice like this
Is entirely amiss,
And if you don’t oppose it, you ought-ter;
But, upon cool reflection,
I’d allow an exception
For Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

Sugar, Tobacco and Cotton

The streets of the spa town are wide
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Gentlefolk amble outside
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Carriages rolling along
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Everyone sings the same song
Sugar, tobacco and cotton

Buildings in regency style
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Stroll in the gardens awhile
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Though it all seems so carefree
Something in Denmark is rotten
What brought these riches we see?
Sugar, tobacco and cotton

Bursting right out of each purse
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Two of the three are a curse
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Look how we’re flourishing now
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Don’t ever stop to ask how
Sugar, tobacco and cotton

Under the lash works a team
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Never taste Devonshire cream
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Sweltering out in the field
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
What will their suffering yield?
Sugar, tobacco and cotton

A baby is born with blue eyes
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Nobody shows much surprise
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
So many siblings for play
So many babes misbegotten
What causes all their dismay?
Sugar, tobacco and cotton

Portugal, England and Spain
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Amsterdam joins the refrain
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Baltimore, Nantes and Bordeaux
What has us all so besotten?
See how they come and they go
Sugar, tobacco and cotton

This is the reason you’re born
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Early to work in the morn
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Many souls noble and proud
Why have their names been forgotten?
Everyone say it out loud:
Sugar, tobacco and cotton

Some More of My Limericks

I once knew a man who was poor
Who used to sell dogs door to door.
If you asked, "Is this legal?"
He would slip you a beagle,
Saying, "Gift for your wife – say no more!"


There is nothing amiss in a nude
When her form’s art historically viewed
In a Klimt or Picasso,
But in clubs in El Paso,
There's a form of a miss we’d exclude.


The teacher of Andrew McKay
Said, “Boy, there’s a spot in your eye!
The doctor, no doubt,
Must dig the thing out,”
Which made that poor spot start to cry.
“To the office,” she yelled, “You must fly,”
To which Andrew was bound to comply,
But pretty nurse Finkle
Said, “It’s only a twinkle,
And you’ll lose it, alas, by and by.”


There once was a glass of red wine
That mused, "Must all mortal men dine?
When we’re finally smashed,
Are our hopes simply dashed?
Are we raised again in the divine?"


A lover lamenting cruel fate
Once leapt from the Empire State
Due to heartless young Pam,
Who did not give a damn,
Though her brothers both thought it was great.

Backwards in High Heels

I might seem quite well-adapted
To the people that I meet,
A respectable consumer
You could pass on any street;
But just check beneath the surface
And you’ll see that something’s lacking:
I am walking over breaking ice
And all I hear is cracking.
I have terrible misgivings
That this smile of mine conceals:
I feel just like Ginger Rogers
Dancing backwards in high heels.

I’ve been working for a living
Ever since I was sixteen,
Toiling one way or another,
Though the fruits I’ve not much seen;
Like a monkey on a palm tree,
Like a hamster in a cage,
Like the drone in some loud beehive,
I’ve been robbed at every stage.
When they come to take the census,
I shall hint at how it feels,
When I list my occupation:
“Dancing backwards in high heels.”

They are liquored up in Congress,
Doped to death in Beverly Hills;
If it isn’t the Jack Daniels
Then it’s certainly the pills;
When they’re backed into a corner
And their options always stink,
Then it’s really not surprising
People turn to drugs and drink;
No one’s staying on the wagon
When it’s always losing wheels,
But it’s hard when you’re not sober—
Dancing backwards in high heels.

We’re all seeking a way forward,
We’re all looking for the light,
We’re all pulling up our bootstraps,
We’re all working through the night,
We’re all trying to be better,
Watching courses, buying books,
But we’ve found out that perfection’s
Not as simple as it looks,
And this thing called self-improvement
Isn’t worth a bag of eels—
“Seven Ways to Be Effective
Dancing Backwards in High Heels.”

We are laboring on life’s treadmill,
Trudging every day that comes,
But the people in high places
Are convinced we’re simply bums
That they have to micromanage
Like bacteria or slime,
Just in case we might embezzle
A few minutes of their time,
So, we entertain them daily
Like blasé performing seals,
Catching any fish they’ll throw us,
Dancing backwards in high heels.

I think most people are honest
To a moderate degree,
With some paragons of virtue
(I refer to you and me!),
But there’s no one’s road that’s easy,
Be they virtuous or foul,
Which is why the rich and mighty
Seem so predisposed to scowl;
Even New York’s greatest gangster
Can’t keep everything he steals,
It’s too hard to get those books straight,
Dancing backwards in high heels.

There are people in big houses,
There are people in small shacks,
There are those who watch portfolios,
And those who watch their backs;
There is heartbreak in high places,
Trouble on the factory floor:
We are all in this together,
Be we wealthy, be we poor.
Though Dame Fortune’s got a lot of cards,
There’s just one hand that she deals:
Everybody’s Ginger Rogers,
Dancing backwards in high heels.

John the Baptist kept his nose clean
In the desert far from town
And he tried to warn the people
What he thought was going down;
He avoided all temptation,
Be it money, sex, or meat,
And he preached purification
With no shoes upon his feet;
But they chopped his head off anyway,
The book of Mark reveals,
For a showgirl named Salome,
Dancing backwards in high heels.

Now, I’ve made my lamentation
On the state of human woe,
And I ought to take it further,
But wherever would I go?
There’s no deus ex machina,
There’s no justice in the land,
And if one thing’s not transparent
It’s that famous unseen Hand;
But my case would never make it
To the Court of Last Appeals:
No, you don’t get compensation,
Dancing backwards in high heels.

I’ve conceived a celebration
When they lay me to my rest,
And it gives me satisfaction
Just to contemplate this jest:
I’ll have Dixies’ fastest jazz band
To provide a sense of cheer,
And then sixteen milk-white horses
Bringing barrels full of beer,
Forty circus clowns in costume,
Prancing wild high-stepping reels,
Six strong men to bear my coffin—
Dancing backwards in high heels.

Blue-Blue-Blue Day (A Song for Spring)

This morning, I’m feeling quite frisky
Maybe I’ll skip that first whiskey
Then again, no, that’s too risky
In love with this blue-blue-blue day

Surely, I’ve never felt fitter
A-flitter with twitter and glitter
Feeling each neurotransmitter
In love with this blue-blue-blue day

Something in nature is calling
Even the worms are enthralling
Possums don’t look so appalling
In love with this blue-blue-blue day

Each cooling breeze, every sparrow
Thrills me right down to the marrow
Why has my mind been so narrow?
In love with this blue-blue-blue day

I know that this ecstasy’s treason
To all of the dictates of reason
But Spring is one hell of a season
In love with this blue-blue-blue day

The sun’s such a succulent orange
Time for sunbathing and more, in-
-gesting an ice cream or four
In love with this blue-blue-blue day

Somehow my heart is ascending
All of my traumas are mending
Who needs a cynical ending?
In love with this blue-blue-blue day

More of My Limericks

A charming romantic named Bing
Sought to fly like a bird on the wing,
So he climbed up a steeple,
Which scared all the people,
So they caged him and taught him to sing.


Feeling dizzy, lightheaded and faint?
Then you're either in love or you ain't.
If your heart's not aglow,
To a doctor please go,
For you must have some lesser complaint.


A solipsist aired his contention
To peers at a recent convention.
He cried, “It’s quite clear
That you’re really not here,
But you bastards just don’t pay attention.”


A rather disgruntled young Viking
Found plunder was not to his liking:
When they yelled, “All ashore”
He just threw down his oar
And announced, “I’m not striking, I’m striking”


We think seventy virgins a must
When it comes to rewarding the Just,
But that neighbor we shun
Says it’s seventy-one—
What a shocking example of lust!


There was a collector named Otto,
Who bought an expensive Giotto,
Which he hung on his wall
And would point out to all,
Saying, “Don’t go to auctions when blotto.”