A letter arrived
marked. "Attention Required."
It said my poetic license
had expired.

To the Department Of Literary Vehicles
I went to update it.
The lines were long;
I waited and waited.

When finally I got to the window
there was a test.
I reposed to compose
and to give it my best.

But the man informed me
that I had flunked.
He said what I wrote
was just a bunch of junk!

I asked "Who are you
to say I didn't pass?
You couldn't recognize a good poem
if it bit you on the ass!"

"That may be so," he said,
"but I recognize the pathetic--
which yours is, of course,
it is certainly not poetic.

What you wrote isn't poetry;
it's not even rap.
Think what might happen
if a child heard that crap!

This is why there is a license
that you must renew!
This protects the public
from 'poets' like you."


I ranted and raved;
I threw such a fit,
they decided to give me
a Learner's Permit.

But this wasn't good;
this wasn't cool.
To get my license back
I had to go to school--

or compose my poetry
with the supervision and help
of a licensed poet
seated to my left.

"I refuse!" I said;
"What you're doing is a crime!
I'll give up my license
and never again rhyme!"


But temptation was everywhere,
like the man with the bucket,
who said he really was
from the town of Nantucket.

He was a dude
who was shrewd and crude.
His name was Macgruder--
He drove a scooter--
he was a tutor--

For a New Orleans man
who was a water meter reader,
and a Walla Walla woman
who made hummingbird feeders.
He was teaching them to play tic-tac-toe,
and how to find Waldo.

Everywhere I went--
The roses were red,
the violets were blue,
then came an old woman
who lived in a shoe.
She had so many children
she didn't know what to do--
And she was here to say--
There was another one on the way.

I told the old woman
"What the heck!
more children will add
to your welfare check.

And before you even dare
to think about abortion,
move into a Nike
and you might get a shoe endorsement."

She thanked me so kind.
I said, "I'm sorry about the rhyme.
If you won't call the poetry police,
I promise to desist and to cease."
I was truly sorry for what I did,
and concerned I couldn't trust a woman
who had so many kids.


Then I saw a baby
in a tree-top.
I picked up my cell phone
and called a cop--

who arrested the parents
without any maybes.
That is not a proper place
to keep a baby!

And I wanted to write a poem
that would make parents see
that they should not put
their babies in trees,

But without license
I didn't dare do,
or the cops would come
and arrest me too!

It was more than I could stand;
I was depressed and subdued.
I wanted my poetic license
to be renewed.


Everything was poetic;
it made me want to weep.
I thought I'd feel better
if I got a little sleep.

Within a few minutes
the dreams started rolling past.
There was a pickup truck carrying a donkey--
You could say it was hauling ass.

It stopped to pick me up,
right out of the blue;
so I guess you could say
that it was hauling two.

To the airport is where they took me,
but I was afraid to get on and go.
"We love to show that it flies"
was the airline's motto.

I had to get away,
so I hailed a taxi as I ran.
The driver had a pick;
he was a guitar man.

And every time he stopped
he'd do a little pickin',
while Louise Mandrel was riding shotgun.
They were singing songs about dead chickens
and having a ton of fun!

They dropped me off at a mall,
and I thought I'd browse a while,
when I met a man who was looking
for his missing inner-child.

He said he had to find the kid,
that he was all alone,
ever since his inner-child
ran away from home.

I said, "Man, what you got to do
to deal with all that guilt
is to put you inner-child's picture
on cartons of milk!"

He said that was a good idea,
and he thanked me from the heart;
And I walked on down the mall to see
some designer auto parts.

Oscar de la Renta was sellin'
a line of ball joints.
And Calvin Klein was hawkin'
designer plugs and points.

Tommy Hilfiger was showing off
his designer manifolds.
And ole Ralph Lauren was oh so proud
of his pistons plated with gold.

And I could see that designer auto parts
would soon become the passion;
And I couldn't wait for my car to breakdown
so I could fix it in high fashion!


Then I dreamed I passed a doctor's office,
and they were handing out alco-derm patches.
People was sticking 'em on their skin--
They was puttin' em on in batches.

Seems they were jumpin' on the wagon--
giving up their bottles of gin,
so they could pass a breath test
and get loaded through their skin.

Ain't technology wonderful?
That's what I was thinkin'.
Sure was a good way
to stop yourself from drinkin'.


I walked on down to a sporting good store
and they tried to sell me some shoes.
They said they would make my joggin'
effortless and smooth.

I said, "No thanks, I tried joggin',
but I had to stop it--
the cigarettes kept fallin'
out of my pocket."

I said, "A better way
is to eat a lot of junk food--
then after a while you'll be jogging
every time you move."

They said "You are what you eat."
I said "Yeah, that's what I've heard."
And I walked on down the mall
eating my box of Nerds!


Then I started dreaming about a woman named Ruth.
She was a sayer of sooth.
She said it would be uncouth
to say sooth that wasn't truth.
But she had sooth to say,
so I best get out of her way.

She said, "Whether you travel
near or far,
everywhere you go--
there you are.
And wherever it is
that you might be,
everywhere you look
there is something to see."

Then she told me that on judgment day
so many would be left out in the cold,
because the appendix was the place
where God put the soul.

Then she said, "I've been sick, and I've been well;
surviving both, I'm here to tell
that one thing is perfectly clear--
it's better to be well for one day
than to be sick for a whole year."

I didn't have proof that Ruth's sooth was truth,
but since I didn't have to pay her,
I was willin' to accept that sooth
was in the mind of the sayer.

Then she asked if I like to hear more;
she said she had a lot left.
I didn't want to hurt her feelings,
so I told her I was deaf.


Then up came two politicians,
much to my surprise,
their pants were on fire
and they had needles in their eyes.

They were debatin'
the proper things to be hatin'.
I couldn't decide which one should win,
or which pile to step in.

So I decided to cast my vote
for the one who loved God the most--
But it seemed they both loved him a bunch,
so I voted for the one that bought me lunch.


I walked on down the mall
to do some window shoppin'.
I heard they had a sale
that was really rockin'.

But I misunderstood
what the ad was tellin'.
It wasn't knockers
but Dockers they were sellin'.


I walked into a tattoo parlor
and they tattooed on my skin
all the numbers
from one to ten.

And as I left that parlor
the people did announce
that I was a person
on whom they could count.


I went on down to a toy store
that catered to the young.
I bought a Born-Again Barbie,
the doll who talks in tongues.

And every time I pulled her string
her babblin' did abound.
I didn't know what she was sayin',
but she sounded like James Brown!

Then I dreamed I went home,
and there was a woman watering my grass!
I said, "don't you realize
that will make it grow fast?"

She said "Yes."
She did know.
She was doing it
so I'd have to mow!

So I called her a bad name
that rhymes with mow
and told her she had to go!

As she walked away I could see
that my lawn was still drenched;
So I ordered my dog
to sic the wench!

But it seemed my dog
was not in the mood;
He don't sic nothing
that's not eating his food.

Damn that dog!
If he had more viciousness
I'd never be visited
by Jehovah's Witnesses.

But up walked two;
they were twins--
on a campaign
against sin.

They said by God they had been sent
to tell me to repent.
What they said was probably true;
they had biblical names, these two.
They were the Testament brothers,
Old and New.

I told them I was like God,
in my own little way,
because I don't do anything
on the Sabbath day.

But unlike God,
who took Sabbath as a breather,
I don't do much
on the other days either.

Hearing this, the brothers left,
they decided not to dawdle.
It was clear that God was my role model.



Then I started having a nightmare;
I was in a terrible fix--
surrounded by monsters
out on Highway 666.

I wasn't sure what they was,
but they were frightful creatures.
They might have been a coven
of English teachers--

On some grammatical cleansing frenzy,
with words so bardly,
but hardly Bob Marley--
They admitted they shot the participle dangler,
but they did not shoot the metaphor mixer!

Yeah, it seemed that dangler 
he was always teasin'
with subjects and verb 
that didn't agree,
and being an infinite dim-wit,
infinitives he would split.

This is why he deserved to die.
But the metaphor mixer
accidentally got dead 
when a run-on sentence hit him in the head!

But today, if they had their way,
they were going to make pay
the people who add an "okay?"
to what they say.

And it was understood--
they were out for blood!

They asked me if I knew why these people
ask if it's okay
after almost
everything they say.

Do they need our approval
to know if they should ask penitence
before they dare
to start their next sentence?

Or were they were taught
that in conversational art
"okay" should be used
as an audible punctuation mark?

They wondered if the "okays" were still there
when they bowed their heads to made to God a prayer--

"Big dawg who art in heaven; okay?
I wanta thank thee for all the blessings 
thou hast bestowed upon my ass; 
okay?

And they wondered if they'd conclude each line
of their poem on Valentine's Day
with that usual question
asking if it's okay--

"Roses are red; okay?
Violets are blue; okay?
I think you're okay;
Do you think I'm okay too?"

And I was sure they wasn't playin'
when one of them started sayin'
that after they kill those who do the okayin',
then they'd be slayin'
the people who end each sentence with
"You know what I'm sayin'?"

I could see there was going to be murder in mass!
And I knew I had to get away fast!
And did I ask if this was okay?
No way!

I was so frightened by what they did and said,
that I onomatopoeiaed all over my bed!

And I was afraid to go back to sleep;
I was afraid to stay awake.
Giving up my poetic license
was a big mistake!

Anyone could plainly see
that my life was terrible--
and if I couldn't write poetry
it might become unbearable.

But writin' those line that rhyme
was my way of passing time.

But then I started wondering why
I pass so much time
making up stupid
things that rhyme--

Maybe I spend too much time alone;
or maybe I got me a Rhymin' Jones!

One might easily agree
this activity is pathetic.
But I can't help it;
it must be genetic.

But if I rest
and medicate my condition,
my Rhymin' Jones
might go into remission;

And I could be a recovering poet!
Join Versifiers Anonymous
and to meetings goethe!

In a twelve step program
I could deal with this affliction!
And maybe I could end
my rhyming addiction--

"Hi, my name is Diogenes Bob,
and I am a poet most caring!"
"Hi Bob;
thanks for not sharing!"


I decided to go a-lookin',
hoping I could find
a meaning for life
that didn't rhyme.

So I climbed a mountain in Tibet;
it rained all day, I was soaking wet.
But I endured the rain and the terrible strife
to ask a holy lama the meaning of life.

When I reached the peak, I asked the holy man
to tell me life's meaning as best he can.
He replied that life's meaning, true,
was "Do wa diddy diddy dum diddy do."


I decided right then 
it was a diversion I was needin',
so I started a new profession
doing psychic breast readin'.

"Hi, what's your name?
Nikki, I knew that.
Where you from, Nikki?
I knew that too.
Will it be a sighted or a brail reading for you?

I read with my eyes;
I read with my hands.
I lip read some
and read with my tongue.

I see that you dislike evil.
Am I good or what?

You are like me
because we both have names.
If not for our differences
we would be the same.

Your life will be easy
except for the times that are rough.
You will die old 
if you live long enough.

When the sun goes down
your world will grow dark.
From Michel Breznikoff 
you will learn to ballet park!

I see that you are a very talented writer
and you are presently writing a book the title of which will be--
Ventriquilism For Dummies.
No; Quantum Physics For Dummies?
No; Special Education For Dummies? 

I see that you recently suffered a great tragedy in your personal life:
your dog was killed when the toilet seat fell on his head!

No?  Hummm--

In high school you were captain of a cordless drill team.

Wait!  Wait! Wait!

I see that you have just walked out the door."


ONE WEEK LATER:

I got my poetic license back;
I can legally rhyme once more.
How did I do this--
you implore.

I enrolled in the poetry school
that is run by Mom and Pop.
It's called Our Lady Of The Catfish Pond
Poetry School And Bait Shop.

Mom is the head mistress;
she taught us from books.
Pop is the head master baiter;
he taught us how to bait hooks.

The school turns out real scholars,
better education you could not wish;
not only can I read and write poetry,
I can also catch fish!

The picture on my license, you ask?
Well that was sort of a gag.
I told the D.L.V. that I was The Unknown Poet,
and I always wore a bag!

Besides this is just a minor flaw,
and possession is nine points of the law--
and I now possess a license to rhyme
which you can't prove ain't mine! 

Think what you want!

If you want to think that I got some real poet
to go to the D.L.V.,
take the test in my name
to get a license for me;
well, that is your choosin'.
I say good luck with the provin'!

But until then:

Sail on, sail on, oh mighty Rhymin' Jones--
Oh great phantom of the mobile home,
one who inhabits the twilight zone,
co-signer of my loan--
Hold the phone; I got a dial tone.
Pass a kidney stone;
throw the dog a bone;
enjoy an ice cream cone--
As I rhyme my way
through the great unknown!