O, the tricks of the ticks in sticks,
Some plump as black olives, others mere mites
So small that one might sail down your pipe.
Who knows all the tricks of all of the ticks in the sticks,
The tick tricks in the Transvaal and Transylvania 
And in the Gobi and on cute panda bears
Or even hiding in unwashed underwears?
To be the master of the lore of ticks—
The mysteriously monickered family Ixodidae, 
Scutum shell sclerotized shield of classic renown—
Under whose heel-proof protection they crawl all around.
Let us not forget—Arrgh!—the family Argasidae
To a one soft, squishy, shy, and ever so sly.

A hex on ticks and the bugs that they bear
And so nippingly hungrily so want to share.
Tularemia makes victims screamier.  
Query Fever’s the queeriest, so eerie its woe,
Believe me, you don’t want to know.
The lingering Lyme, a disease sublime,
Is favored by poets who need easy rhymes.
Anaplasmosis could cause a psychosis.
Human Granulocytic Monocytic Ehrlichiosis?
Gooey death’s the gruesome prognosis.
Relapsing Fever means sudden collapsing
And sufferers’ life spans abruptly elapsing.
Then come famed fevers that go by place names: 
Crimean-Congo Hemorrhagic so tragic causes
Blood in buckets to pour without pauses
From victims’ noses, toeses, 
Even males’ hoses where urine should flowses.
Nantucket Fever, a slaying whale of a ride,
Makes one say, while crying inside, 
“O, rhymes with Nantucket! Oh my” 
And crawl off to clam up and die.
Rocky Mountain Fever hits the skull like a cleaver
And will in God make its victims’ believers.
T. Rex is gone, to extinction acquiesced. 
But ticks? Their caress timeless, they persevere.

Perhaps even now one sips in your ear.


Α ∞◊ ♣ § ♥ ♦ ∞ Ω



Artist Pete was at his easel
When round the bend sped trucker Cecil.
His cargo was ten thousand weasels,
All mean and achy with the measles.

Sleepy Cecil went to yawn
And when he woke his life was gone.
Smashing, crashing went the diesel
Mashing all ten thousand weasels.

And poor Pete? He fainted,
His canvas repainted—
Red spotted with diseas-ed weasels
And a dash of deceas-ed Cecil. 

The lesson of this trucker's woe?
Lord, teach us mortals to go slow
Lest we be fleeting pigments
For some roadside Van Gogh.


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There once was a lass named Denise
Who hated the honking of geese.
She slammed windowsills
And popped sleeping pills
And dreamed of the fowlest of feasts.


Α ∞◊ ♣ § ♥ ♦ ∞ Ω


Consider the bat:
Where he is at—
Upside down
But never a frown.
Informal, the bat
Never a hat
Or silk cravat
Hang in the way
Of his riscavey soirées.
He dines on fine gnats
Just follow the fast cloud
To be with the bat crowd.
With kinfolk he huddles
In roofy fur puddles—
No ermines or minks,
Just bat furs, I thinks.
How to describe
This party bizarre,
This swinging sensation
In clammy locations?
Pick up the vibes
Use echolocation,
Don’t be leery,
Follow this theory—
Home in, hang on,
Drop guano.


Α ∞◊ ♣ § ♥ ♦ ∞ Ω



Pretty, witty platypus, who bethunkedup thee?
Was it God on some crazed creatin’ spree
Or some mad mashedallupsidedownunder committee?
Could they for you not have had some platypity?
Mixed up, you are (just like this rhyme)
Betwixt a what, a which, this or half of that.
You no magician could yank from a hat.
Watermole, whatsits, wingfree duck, I’m
Transfixed on the who’s of yous so all a’slime.
It would on you to be a crime to do a trick,
For that on you was ago long a time done.

It’s no surprise that you, sir, have such venom
In your spurs that through tough denim
It squirts and hurts, so with your missus
Miss Prissy Pussy, I will not skirt or even flirt.
I ask: When the platypussies gives their kissies
O, so pretty, platypretty please
Do their thingy-thingies go straight to its?
Just how often does the mister’s mister miss his missie,
And does missie’s missy miss her…oh, nevermind.
This platypoem’s fallen far too far behind
With thoughts of how these rascals intertwine.
Research is inconclusive on these reclusives.
Being nocturnal, there’re no paternal journals.
Truth is male platypodes are well bestowed.
And lady platypi have him whims. They sigh and sigh.
Never rapture do they platy decline.
Despite low illumination none need artificial insemination.

Did you know the lucky lassie regardless of her body type
Has got but one ovary that’s eggful ripe?
(Always the left was science’s sinister discovery.)
No matter, for one month after plats do schtupp
Out of reptilish eggs do pop de platypups.
Waddle it be? Mama’s love is far from cursory
Burrowed lonely in her platypursary
Always on her furrowed brow memories of her anniversary.
With fevered fancies of her mister’s nimble will
Wonders she, “Had I been on the platypill
Would that sly guy have fit my bill?”


Α ∞◊ ♣ § ♥ ♦ ∞ Ω



I glimpsed two mating owls
A glimpstant after they caught peeping me.
Away they wide winged through treetops thick
For more ke en preening and hoo-hoo-hooings.
When with zesty nesty egg lust they ruffle hot
These wise woods ones turn foul fowls.
Bird watchers know they grow territoriowl
About the shy high spot where their love squats.
They glower, dive on joggers, walkers, tots
With talons slashing quite an awfowl lot.
Such tempermentowls!
But I cannot condemn them or be too judgementowl.
Their love is lasting, transcendentowl,
Not the least flighty or experimentowl.
For wee owlets need far-sighted parentowl
Guides to pass on feathery fundamentowls.
When after many harvest moons have gone gentowl
Our paired off preds make no jealous flap
To the sunset they mousy muffled fade,
Laying antique beaks on each other’s cheek
To the end, friends, ever sentimentowl.


Α ∞◊ ♣ § ♥ ♦ ∞ Ω



I met an iguana named Wanda.
For her I felt fairly fond of.
We smoked marijuana.
I went to Nirvana.
But manana, I saw her appeal
Wasn’t real, for Wanda
Was really a heel, a monster,
A reptilian man-eating pirana.
Now I really don’t wanna with Wanda.


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Dere vunce vas a dachshund name Fred
Who loved da hide under mein bed.
   I took out da stick,
   Und I give him a lick,
Und dat Hun lost da hide off his head.


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I would give my fourth right arm
To make love with you, Sue.

S’wat all the other squids say, Norm.
Find s’mother calamari to cling to.

Let’s photoluminesce.
Let’s our tentacles coalesce.

G’wan ‘n’ grab me some herring.
‘N’ stop all your fancy declaring.

O, my cuddlely cuddlefish,
Your mantle cavity’s all I wish.

You wish. Go fish.
Whadda ya some kind of swish?

Pink and mauve flutter my fins
Pulsating with a biolight within.

Take ya spermatophoric gland,
Go crawl up on high dry land.

Oh, my lands! My fourth right hand!
My hectocotylus has come unloosed!
Here’s my packet for your jacket!
Into you I goose, goose, goose!

O, you brute, you rubbery beast!
I wish I were deep-sea deceased!
I’d say you’ve given me the very least—
Your thingy-thing has come unpieced!

It’s in. It’s done. My tip’s detached.
So, Suzy, with dispatch,
Just you gestate! Hatch my batch!


Α ∞◊ ♣ § ♥ ♦ ∞ Ω



Eels are slinky, their sex lives’ real kinky.
Take Cecile and Emil, married morays,
A pair with, shall we say, unusual mores.
On the surface, their love’s the real eely deal.
But, oh, what woes waves will conceal.
Cecile’s neurotic; for haute heels exotic
She charges to shoe stores aquatic.
(Though her style’s eclectic, Cecile’s not electric,
Her sprees so footloose, so wild, and so quick,
The bills are abyssal! They’re sordid! They’re shocking,
Though she brightly budgets but for one stocking.)
When atoll feeling Caribbean blue,
Cecile always knows just what to do:
Whether slingbacks, T-straps, or pumps,
Heels hoist her from the reefiest lowest of dumps.
Now Emil too has eyes for heaven high heels
For in the sea bed, he’s limp, a banana’s old peel.
Whether slingbacks, T-straps, or pumps,
They make his heart thumpety thump,
More important, his nether parts bumpety plump.
Sadly, Cecile with Emil’s always a’quarrel
A’slitherin’ ‘round their house made of coral,
Thus leading us to our most fathomless moral:
If sky high heels leave you addled, addicted
Have toes constricted with misery afflicted.


Because Cecile and Emil had neither ankles nor feet,
Their sole sole fixations meant divorce and defeat.
Our Emil met a new fish—A sweet English sole.
Now they’re shoal mates, and Cecile’s in the hole.