Full Faith and Credit
Don’t you find it rather odd
that Ben Bernanke acts like God?
When banksters come in need of cash
Ex Nihilo he creates a $ta$h.
No mere bald bureaucrat is he!
His is a Divine decree.
With bold keystrokes, Almighty Ben
takes from me to give to them.
There are examples from the past
when Noble twits debased the cash.
They mixed base metals with the Gold-
But Ben makes dollars you can fold.
Not backed by silver nor by Gold
That’s “Faith” and “Credit” that you hold.
It cramps his style to ask for metal
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Lucky Man
Just so many seasons in a lifetime.
Just so many innings in the game.
Years I spent toiling in Ruth’s shadow,
Batting my way to the hall of fame.
I proudly wore the mantle of the Captain
Which Ruth held just one day (to his great shame)
I stepped aside when I was struck by sickness
-my life a shortened, but official, game.
And now another Yankee claims my record-
a man like me who battles for the prize.
The Angels say he plays the game the right way.
He is a worthy Captain in my eyes.
The park is new, the team is good this season
My seat is in the grandstand way up high.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Gropes of Wrath
The old lady at the terminal
had seen this show before.
Travellers removing shoes
but the TSA wants more.
Full body X-ray scans
that reveal you in the nude.
Refusal gives them cause to grope,
with hands and manners rude.
Some incontinent old lady
had had her diaper snatched.
A Veteran with a metal leg
had it forcibly detached.
Our heroine was quite nonplussed
when the matron grabbed her bra
but when she groped for Venus' mons
she felt they'd gone too far.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Highway of Exce$$
The Highway of Exce$$
I'm just another failure
on the Highway of excess.
My children disrespect me,
and my wife is unimpressed.
These days a hundred thou$and
doesn’t get you very far.
I'm wearing last year's wardrobe
and I drive a pre-owned car.
My son's friends drive Mercedes
that their Daddy's dollars bought.
I bought my son a Nano.
Its an Indian import.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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A Prayer for Thanksgiving,2010
A Prayer for Thanksgiving,2010
Lord, we humbly thank you
For the feast you set before us.
The harvest has been fruitful,
And you preserved us to enjoy it.
The year has been a challenge
for our oldest and our dearest,
but baby Julia’s lately come
with her toothless smiles to cheer us.
Our wives and daughters have prepared
a great Thanks Giving feast.
The places set, the wines been poured.
I’ll gain five pounds at least
We give thanks that we’re together.
Far too often we are not.
With the children off in college
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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A tenuous Tenor
He sang a tenor’s part-
No more a tenor really
Though aging cords may gamely try
It was disaster- nearly.
He lost the lyric line.
Poor fellow –must be blasted
Too much North Fork wine
Or maybe he’s just past it.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Maiden and the Flames
She was scarcely twenty one
on the day the Reaper came.
A writer of great promise;
Toru Dutt was her name.
Bengali was her native tongue,
but only just her first.
She had conversed in German,
written French and English verse.
Now she lay silent, dressed in white
in the company of flowers.
A shame it was a funeral pyre
and not her wedding bower.
Her sister, overcome with grief,
Her Parents both the same.
Her sad eyed father lit the torch
and consigned her to the flames.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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None of the Above (Political)
I've listened to their speeches.
Read their termite riddled planks.
They're unlikely to dethrone Barrack-
A pity, Mitt is no tom Hanks.
They are out of touch with women,
unsympathetic to the poor.
They're still fighting social issues
that were decided years before.
For a party of small government,
They sure have a lot to say
about Sex in America
among the unwed and the gay.
The Democrats, by contrast,
Hit all the right social notes;
Indeed, they will say anything
if it will buy them votes.
Then, when we hit the fiscal cliff,
The Obamas living large,
I'm sure he'll find some Bush to blame
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Until we have Faces (Part one)
Lilliana was quite beautiful
in most peoples'estimation.
Even her name was musical
Her proportions were perfection.
She, being young,
heard her praises sung
by the minstrels of the land.
Of course she was a princess.
His Royal Highness was her Dad.
.
Little gifts began appearing,
annonymously, of course
Often she heard some angel singing
but could not trace the source.
Her little sisters teased her
about her mystery man.
Who would do anything to please her
Who'd ask Father for her hand.
Could his Father be the Duke
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Witness on trial
I was present at the trial
when Marcus Tullius took the stage
To defend a man accused, by you,
of poisoning and outrage.
I tried to hide a smile
when he all but called you 'Whore'.
He painted Caelius as some innocent
that you lured to your door.
He defined you as a harlot
though he barely spoke your name.
He next implied your brother
was your spouse in all but name.
He acknowledged your nobility
and then outlined your shame.
He all but stripped you naked,
He's a master of the game.
The rumors of your drunkenness
last summer at the shore.
The long parade of Lovers
while your husband was at war.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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