From Poet Paulo. A Sonnet To My Wickedness. (I'm not THAT bad.)

I sing a song of Tara

Oh she of bouncy blond curls

And the laughing eyes

And the dimples so deep

You think you could put your whole fist in them

And you'd kind of like to

Because she'll probably hit you first

When you're not looking

She's mean like that



Nobody really knows her

They think she's sweet

Those curls are deceptive

They lend her an air of innocence

All the better to deceive you

With her country girl charm

Hick-like, one might even say

She even drives a jeep

As any cool country girl should

A deep throaty laugh

This covers over the malevolence

That occasionally bursts forth

Despite her rigid control



Gaze deeply into those lovely blue eyes

Or green. I don't recall

Because I see only

The pools of molten fire

Dancing there

Reflecting the tortured souls

Of those she has left in her wake,



She has her act down well

"I'm a sweet country girl"

"I love my family"

"My dad is the best man I know"

It's all a facade

Cleverly crafted

In some bureau

Where she's a high ranking member

LIke Kevin Costner

In "No Way Out"

Surely she's not that evil

Just for kicks.



At some point she'll drop her cover

Or be activated

Maybe she's actually in charge

Like Dr. Evil

Or Goldfinger

Or the guy who releases the McRib

Only occasionally

I've never had one

But I've heard they're really good.



Be warned, dear reader

Be wary of her charm

The Bible says it's deceptive



I'm reluctant to warn you

With specific examples

That could reveal my identity

I have a family

And she's just mean as hell.

Those red Jimmy Choos

There was a young lady who wanted a shoe,
If she could afford it, she wanted two.

But cut backs and drawbacks had emptied her purse.
She got so upset, she started to curse.

Outside she went, yelling at the sky.
Where old ladies and children were innocently nearby.

She covered her mouth and walked to the street,
Looking for a place she could bleepedy bleep.

She stood under a tree and started to shout,
But was interrupted by a neighborhood fella with gout.

“My toe’s the size of a melon, would you like to see?”
She replied, with annoyance, “What, are you crazy?”

She turned her back on him and started to spew,
The profanity came out first one, then two

“Hold it there honey, why so profane?”
“Don’t call me honey,” she said, “that’s not my name.”

“Tell me your troubles, maybe I can help.”
“Unless you have money, keep your advice to yourself.”

“Are you sick, hungry, lost or diseased?”
“No, but I’m about to kick you where you won’t be pleased.”

The man turned slowly, limping along.
He started to whistle a Barry Manilow song.

She plugged her ears but in her head couldn’t end
The tune of, “Ready to Take a Chance Again.”

“Look what you’ve done. That song’s in my head.
I hate Manilow. I like the Grateful Dead.”

He halted his limp and turned on his heel.
“I’ll stop whistling if you’ll tell me your deal.”

She rolled her eyes but finally agreed.
“My boss had financial trouble so I’ve been freed.

I need some shoes, ones I can’t afford.
Now, what in life do I have to live for?”

He considered her words, leaning on his good toe.
They made him irritated and decided to let it show.

“Let me get this straight, you want a pair of shoes?”
She nodded, thinking of those red Jimmy Choos.

“Here I’ve got gout, but feeling sorry for you.
Be thankful you can put on both pairs of shoes.
Did you not hear me? I’ve got gout.
And I’m not standing around, cussin’ about.”

He walked away, leaning heavily to one side.
She got a grip and went back inside.

The Unemployment Mantra

I'm awesome, cool, stupendous
You should see me wash your winda's
Not a print, a streak, a spot
I'll heal your walls of dry rot
Rake and bag those pesky leaves
All for a minimal of fees
I can do everything, I can
With a spreadsheet, pen or dustpan
Clip your nails and cut your hair
Change your tire without a spare
Answering phones professionally
Instead of coffee, steep your tea
I can lift 50 pounds or so
Stocking shelves with sweet-n-low
I'll clean up spills on aisle nine
And leave behind a hint of pine
Don't worry 'bout that irate customer
I'll talk them down from their bluster
And by the time my charms are done
They'll refuse that full refund
I can preen and primp and sell
That sweater, stock or Toyota Tercel
Show me a family ready to invest
I'll sell them a condo in Budapest
I can 10-key 80 characters or more
Laundering those funds just offshore
They'll return in clean masses
Free of fees and even taxes
I'll cross all 't's and dot that 'i'
And feign ignorance when you lie
I'm great at everything, look no more
Hire me so I'll no longer be poor