Taking Dad to a Game
The Polo Grounds, when the Field’s first seen
are a most magical shade of green.
Hand in hand, me and my Dad
head for our seats in the right field stands.
It’s the Cincinnati Reds in town
to play the New York Mets.
There’s a double header scheduled,
How much better could it get?
Cincinnati took the first game
by a score of three to nil.
My hot dog was delicious
Dad had a beer to swill.
The nightcap was a wild affair
The Mets won thirteen- twelve.
You could look it up, as Casey said,
if you should care to delve.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Butterfly
A caterpillar had the feeling
That change was coming
That time was stealing.
To embrace the metamorphosis
It wove a cocoon around its chest
And choose our wall to take its rest.
The young are thoughtless, often cruel
And I was no exception.
I would have destroyed it but
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Bequest
When my wife’s great Aunt ‘Dora died
We received a strange bequest.
Not land or Gold or Mallomars
But a box, covered in dust.
Her will strictly enjoined us
from opening the box.
The sides had cryptic puzzles
That served it as strong locks
The box was rather ornate
Carved from finest sandalwood
Inlaid with golden letters
a Greek would have understood.
We both took very seriously
The task to guard this prize
To keep this family heirloom
preserved from prying eyes..
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Tale Of The Two Tubby Tourists
The Pedicab drivers of Gotham all say
You should ignore a 'Whale Hail'
because it just doesn't pay.
The city is hilly and
to pedal gets tough
when your passengers are,
shall we say, overstuffed.
Two tubby tourists out on the town
between them they weighed about
Eight Hundred Pounds.
They had wiped out the Sushi
at an all you can eat.
Much too lazy to walk
on their overstressed feet.
They hailed for a Pedicab
of which there's a multitude
Thats the sole explanation
for accepting their pulchritude.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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When we dead Awaken
My trusted family doctor said
“Sit down, I have bad news.
Your PSA is very high
there are tests we have to do.”
I sat numbly as if in shock.
I scarcely heard a word.
This can’t be happening to me
This whole thing is absurd.
I have a wife, three kids I love
Important work to do
A house in a good suburb,
With a mortgage payment due.
* * * *
I went into the hospital
And they performed the test.
I can’t say now which was worse-
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Section J Row 4 Grave 25
Section J Row 4 Grave 25
Memorial Day,1945
With aching knees he climbed the steps
That ringed the bandstand round.
The Living sat on folding chairs
on consecrated ground.
The general turned and faced the dead,
His back was to the living.
He told his boys, dead heroes all,
He hoped they'd be forgiving.
The fight was hard at Anzio
The foe ringed them around.
Through desperate days in mad forays
They paid with blood for ground.
The cost proved high, so many dead
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Carpenter(via Appia,23/03/44)
The Warden roused them early
on this, their final day.
He marched them out on hobbled feet-
Grey trucks took them away.
Doctors, lawyers, engineers,
All captured in a raid.
German Soldiers had been killed
Reprisals must be made..
Fathers, Husbands, sons all caught
within the Nazi snare.
Among them was a carpenter
Who bowed his head in prayer.
He’d walk the hills of Rome no more
Nor touch a lover’s check
Here, near the Via Appia
He’d find eternal sleep.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Escape of Billy the Kid
In an upper room they have me shackled.
Handcuffed, abused and under guard.
Pat Garrett’s off collecting taxes
This might be my chance, dear Lord.
Bob Olinger would love to kill me
He’s waved his shotgun in my face.
James Bell, the other guard, is softer,
He’s here to keep Bob in his place.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The crown of Thorns
The procurator came back home
As dusk began to fall
His man slave helped him to disrobe
He took his meal alone.
He thought about the days events,
of Proculla’s premonition
about the Jewish rabbi
Whose death pleased the Sanhedrin.
He’d washed his hands
But were they clean?
He struggled to decide.
He thought about this Jesus
Whom he’d just had crucified.
He’d found no real fault in the man
- just a holy fool.
Whom Caiaphas had wanted dead
and used him as the tool.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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A pale Horse, George A. Custer and the Seventh Calvary
A horse to Ride, A sword to wield,
an ocean of grass to tame.
The Seventh was out in the field
to make George Custer’s name.
The village stretched before them,
Custer split his force in three.
Reno’s men struck from the south
and were taking casualties.
Did Custer reach the river
before the native’s struck?
This hero of the Civil war
had just run out of luck.
Major. Reno sensed the trap and fled
And found a place to stand
Benteen brought his men to Reno
to lend a helping hand.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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