Mainly Mania, 4

(obsession doggerel)

Travelin’ Man: dromomania

He liked to travel—anywhere.

By donkey, plane, or car.

The destinations? Didn’t care.

Liked close—or very far.

And in his will—a codicil,

A coinage of his brain:

He wished his coffin placed aboard

A trans-Siberian train.

He stipulated further that

The ride would never end.

Throughout the life of railroad trains

His endless way he’d wend. 

Mainly Mania, 3

(obsession doggerel)

Not Bored of the Dance: Choreomania

She danced at sunrise—every day.

She danced all morning—stopped for lunch.

She danced all afternoon, I say,

Then danced to bedtime—that’s a bunch!

She danced throughout her dancing life—

No energy she’d ever save.

She was a dancing sort of wife—

But danced into an early grave.

But this was not the end of her—

Oh, no sir, no ma’am—not at all.

She caused a cemetery stir

When she arranged a Corpses’ Ball!

Mainly Mania, 2

(obsession doggerel)

Bookie: bibliomania

Oh, many praised her—all the time.

They praised her mind and looks.

But all she really cared about?

Her shelves all crammed with books.

Her floors were covered with the things—

And every surface, too.

Her bed, her tables, countertops

Were piled with volumes, all askew.

One day a towering pile of books

Tipped over on her head.

The coroner declared his view—

'Twas knowledge made her dead. 

Mainly Mania, 1

I'm commencing a new series today--ditties about the various mania that, well, obsess us.

(obsession doggerel)

Flower Power: anthomania

Oh, you could say she loved her plants—

Much more than she loved both her aunts.

She wed herself unto a rose—

A little weird, the wise one knows.

But there’s no need to make a fuss:

She always was a prickly cuss. 

Cavalcade of Cliché, 51

(A parade of words and phrases eligible for retirement.)

Zipped Up

She was a gifted seamstress, and

I thought we were joined at the hip

She thought I talked too much (unplanned!),

And so one day she zipped my lip.

When I woke up, I tried to talk,

But both my lips were zippered shut.

About the case I could not squawk—

For what was next? My you-know-what?

So now when she allows me words,

She pulls the zipper on my lips,

Then zips it shut (a cage for birds!?),

And so began my talk’s eclipse. 

Cavalcade of Cliché, 50

(A parade of words and phrases eligible for retirement.)

Goosed

“Oh, sir, no feathered pets allowed—

Not in the restaurant.”

“But we’re from out of town,” he said—

“A special kind of jaunt.”

“We’ll keep your pet there in the back,”

She said, “until you’re done.”

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll go with that—

Though it won’t be as fun.”

The meal was fine, the service great—

No portion overlooked.

But then he heard, “Oh, sir—too bad:

I fear your goose is cooked!”

Cavalcade of Cliché, 49

(A parade of words and phrases eligible for retirement.)

Cold as Hell

So when Hell freezes over, the pundits declare,

Many kinds of bad things will exist everywhere.

Mississippi will vote for a Democrat—wow!

Yes, and Oregon votes for the GOP—now!

And all children will listen to parents again,

And no Congressman, ever, will rail about sin.

In the Super Bowl, Browns! Once again they will reign!

And the Tribe wins the Series! Oh, the end of our pain!

And we all get along—yes, authentically well.

And we all owe it all to a hard-frozen Hell!