Table of Contents - Vol. VII, No. 1
Please don’t blame me or mark me down as rude
For eating your sweet, cold, delicious plums.
I write this note with awkwardness— all thumbs—
I know it’s sure to make you come unglued.
Truth is, I told you to cut back on food.
I had to save you from yourself, intrude
And eat that lovely fruit myself. Don’t brood,
Just give me thanks and lose that attitude.
I told you and your wife, get off your bums
And get some exercise and live on crumbs
Of bread and sips of water, fare that numbs
The hunger pangs. Soon, fatso (yes, I’m crude),
You’ll lose some ugly waistline amplitude.
I fear this note will bring a sullen mood,
And when you’re sour, the heartburn always comes.
Fret not, I’ve left you half a roll of Tums.
Take two and call me in the morning, dude.
© Don Thackrey