Doing The Wife’s Hair

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Doing the Wife’s Hair

Husbands, raise your hands
Keep them up if you love your wife
Keep them up if you colour your wifes hair
Okay, this is for the three of us that are left….

I did my wife a favour
As I do, because I can
I help her when I’m able
Not just because I am a man

I kill bugs when requested
I do the laundry like I should
I clean the bathroom when it’s dirty
And by doing so , feel good

Every few weeks I will help her
Hide the grey that she can see
I don’t volunteer to do it
But it’s cheap to hire me

A salon visit is expensive
Doing hair, and waiting hours
I just slip on my latex hand wear
And I have a bag full of super powers

Yes, I help my wife get couloured
I take the time and do her hair
I also, get it on the tiles
Up the wall and on two chairs

The dog gets covered just a little
The rug, a window and the bed
But, we always buy two packets
So, there’s enough to do her head

I have a jacket slightly mottled
It’s got a few brown spots, some red
I don’t know exactly how it happened
I even got some on our bed

Just call me Mr. Kenneth
In my jumpsuit doing hair
I get it where I think she needs it
And I spray it everywhere

She comes out looking gorgeous
She’s always happy with the result
She always looks a little different
Like someone who believes in the occult

If you’re a husband who likes money
Save it, colour your wife’s hair
Your part only takes ten minutes
You need ten towels, one mask, one chair

It brings us both closer together
My arms look like a leopard skin
All my shirts are slightly spotted
But all those spots, make me look thin

I’ve got to go now and get cleaned up
The carpets ruined, so’s the wood
But, she’s happy and we all know that
If the wife is happy….all is good!

poem-sacrifice

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Originally posted on Shawn L. Bird:

An Argyll and Sutherland Highlander’s

simple service:

honour guard,

in respectful silence, stand proud

beneath a towering arch,

the bronze visages of

the nation’s memorial to those

fallen in foreign wars,

Keeping faith at the tomb

of the unknown soldier,

Clad in kilt  and jacket,

green as the fields of France,

red and white stockings over

shining white spats,

bronze warriors towering above

wept

as one of Princess Louise’s Highlanders

fell.

.

.

.

This poem references the powerful political cartoon by Bruce MacKinnon drawn in the aftermath of the shooting of Corporal Nathan Cirillo (a reservist with the Argylls and Sutherland Highlanders) on Parliament Hill in Ottawa, October 22, 2014:

Here is Corp Cirillo guarding the national war memorial:

The Argylls and Sutherland Highlanders of Canada on parade.

(I thought I was just posting links to original sites, but the images are showing up. Copyright remains with original sources).

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…a dedication to all the fallen, and particularly to Cpl Nathan Cirillo in the face of the recent madness…

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Originally posted on Seumas Gallacher:

…I don’’t often cut and paste my Facebook posts as blog pieces, but so many people have asked me to do so with the post I made on there yesterday, in the hope that the message may go viral… if yeez wish to share it, please do so… LUV YEEZ!… here’s the post:

…the older I become, the less rational the world appears… I care not for the arguments and posturing that dress themselves as nationalistic, religious, political or downright greed… when a young man standing HONOUR GUARD in memory of those fallen in horrendous global conflicts around the planet is gunned down under some pretence of a deluded fanatic’s ‘righteousness’, my soul screams out, ‘Enough’! ….how present are the words of the song that ask ‘when will they ever learn?’ ..the ‘they’ being all of the creeds, nutters, even well-meaning hawks of all nationalities… last year, I unashamedly…

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My Mother’s Father

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Originally posted on Poesy plus Polemics:

Photo from razorsbarbershop.com

Photo from
razorsbarbershop.com

(Remembering Grandpa Niccolò DeTore)

bay rum barber poet
stropped razors and verse
white handlebar mustache
handsomely lifted his smile
Neapolitan gold in his eyes
bootstrap pride in his step
classic rhetoric served at
each meal from his dapper
silk tie and trim waistcoat
surveying his long kitchen
table where thirteen young
minds learned their everlast
lessons of life in America
steeped in his practicum
lovingly eagerly wrapped
in his keen gentle wisdom

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Mickey’s Halloween

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Mickey’s Hallowee’n

The trick or treater stood before me
Dressed like someone from a story
He was looking good but really gory
I knew just who he was

The blood looked real and really icky
I knew the kid, his name was Mickey
The dried blood it looked really sticky
He never said a word

Zombie like, he stood there staring
It was a fantastic costume he was wearing
I’m sure that most kids he was scaring
He held his bag up high

I reached behind to give him candy
The treats were close, I had them handy
I gave him chocolate, a bar called “Dandy”
He smiled and walked away

I watched him leave and said “good haunting”
I hope he gets all that he’s wanting
He looked at me, like I was taunting
He didn’t understand

Each year he goes out trick or treating
One year poor Mickey took a beating
While he was standing, and his candy eating
He’s never been the same

He’s 24 and no one cares
It’s not the same if he’s not there
He always comes and stands and stares
Mickey makes our Halloween

It’s Hallowe’en again

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Tales of ghouls and trick or treats
Witches, ghosts, and things to eat
The spirit world is here to greet
It’s Hallowe’en again

Soaping windows, creaky doors
Begging like addicted whores
They keep coming,  they want more
It’s Hallowe’en again

Haunted houses, ghostly frights
Witches flying brooms tonight
A zombie lawyer is quite a sight
It’s Hallowe’en agin

Charlie Brown and Snoopy too
Get rocks as treats, I ask…do you?
Dressed as smurfs, all done in blue
It’s Hallowe’en again

The smell of fall is in the air
Tonight the kids are out to scare
I stay downstairs like I’m not there
It’s Hallowe’en again