Bringing It All Back Home On The Ferryman's River

Rounding another silted bend, 
Where someone left a lone 
Oar, a marker now half- 
Hidden in the susurrating 
Singing reeds signaling still 

Another traveler’s solitary 
Deposition beached 
Near the not so 
Farfetched beckoning 
Dog-eared shore. 

Shape Up Or Ship Out, You Swine

Tut-tut now, we know they say 
All the world’s a stage but 
Then again, it’s not 
Your oyster, mate— 

Though it could be 
If you were but a god- 
Damn watchdog standing 
Sentinel at the pearly gates. 

Guarding the Gates of 'Murica's Hell

Keep a right dead level head, 
Look alive and stay put 
In your proper place, gentlemen— 

Nothing but a lynch mob 
All these years, you thought 
You’d keep me broken, barking 

Your heads off up the wrong tree.