Bobby Lee Goosey, "Poems Consisting Solely of Titles"

 

Bobby Lee Goosey

 

Poems Consisting Solely of Titles

 

A Poem Written Whilst Wondering Why the British, Whilst Writing, Prefer the Word “Whilst,” While We Americans Eschew “Whilst,” Preferring, While Writing, To Write “While.”

 

A Poem About How, When I’m Not In America, I Miss America, Even Miss Miss America, and About How, When I’m Not In Mississippi, I Miss Mississippi, Even Miss Miss Mississippi (But I Miss America More Than I Miss Miss America, And I Miss Mississippi More Than I Miss Miss Mississippi).

 

A Poem About Wondering Why “Big Boy” Brand Tomato Plants Produce (At Least in Ohio) Bigger, Better Tomatoes Than “Better Boy” Brand, Whereas One Would Expect That “Better Boy,” Although Not Bigger Than “Big Boy,” Should, Nonetheless, Be Better.

 

A Poem About How Three Beavers, Gnawing On A Pine Tree In Gnaw Bone, Indiana (Near Columbus) Suddenly Realized That Since They Lived In Gnaw Bone, They Would Be Acting More Appropriately To Gnaw Upon A Bone, After Which They Did Indeed Begin Gnawing On A Possum Bone But Disliked The Flavor And Went Back To Their Pine Tree, And Even Today Can Still Be Observed Gnawing (Paradoxically) Upon A Pine Tree In Gnaw Bone, Indiana.

Bobby Lee Goosey, QUACKUPUNCTURE

 

Bobby Lee Goosey

 

Quackupuncture

Had a broken back.
Went to see a quack.
 
He opined:
“What you seem in need of, at this particular juncture,
Is a charlatanic dosage of authentic quackupuncture.”
 
He needled me, the quack.
He cured my broken back.
 
Oh, they tell me that it’s fabulous,
Oriental acupuncture,
But I prefer the treatment called
“Authentic Quackupuncture.”
 

 [from the book titled Bobby Goosey’s Compendium of Perfectly Sensible Nonsense]

Bobby Lee Goosey, "What the Green Grass Has To Say"

 

Bobby Lee Goosey

What the Green Grass Has to Say

Three gray geese in the green grass grazing,

Grazing in the grassy grove

And gazing at their grazing.

 

Why do the geese

In the green grass grazing

Cock their ears and gaze intently

At their grassy grazing,

While they’re in the green grass grazing?

 

Because the grass has things to say,

Extols the benefits of hay,

Declaims good verse

(A nursery lay)

About gray goosey gander

 

In the green grass at play,

About gray goosey gander

In the green grass grazing.

 

[from Bobby Goosey’s Compendium of Perfectly Sensible Nonsense]

Bobby Lee Goosey, THE RUTABAGA RUNNER

 

Bobby Lee Goosey

 

The Rutabaga Runner

I am the rutabaga runner. I run rutabagas in the dark of the night by the light of the moon through the streets of the cloistered metropolis. Why? Because I love rutabagas, with their purplish-white skin and their luscious light-yellow insides. They go just right with mashed potatoes, mashed up along with the mashed potatoes (and then add a dollop of butter): yum.

I grow rutabagas in my garden. Masses of them. Too many for me alone to eat, even though I consume scads and scads and scads of rutabagas. For years I tried to share my extra rutabagas with friends and acquaintances. But there is an ancient stigma attached to liking rutabagas, rutabagas are something one is not supposed to like, and nobody would admit to liking the taste of rutabagas. Not by the light of day. So, even though they all loved, deep down in their viscera, the piquant taste of the luscious yellow insides of the ambrosial rutabaga, friends and acquaintances screwed up fastidious noses at my offer, turned away in disgust. No one would admit, by the light of the day, to wanting, craving rutabagas.

But now I have found a way to provide people with the rutabagas they crave, but minus the stigma. I set my alarm for three. I arise and don my purple velour track suit and running shoes. Under each arm I place a paper bag teeming with the succulent roots, the gift of the gods to humankind. Then I run. I run sequestered by darkness, I run in the dark of the night by the light of the moon through the streets of the cloistered metropolis. Upon the doorstep of a house picked at random I lay my purplish-white (outside) and light-yellow (inside) gifts, and I run to the next house, and then the next; I run, now unburdened and exultant, back in the dark of the night by the light of the moon to my own humble cloistered abode.

I sleep once more and in my dreams I see the loveliness of rutabagas. I see people opening the front doors of their houses by the light of the dawn and the now pallid moon on the streets of the cloistered metropolis. I hear their hushed exclamations of astonished joy:

“John, o John, come quickly. Look. The rutabaga runner has been here! Now we shall have for breakfast mashed potatoes, commingled with the luscious mushy-yellow mashed-up insides of the ambrosial rutabaga. With a big dollop of butter on top. We need not fear the stigma, for no one will see, no one will know. God bless him, God bless the rutabaga runner!”

I sleep on and smile in my dreams. I have found true meaning in life. I am the rutabaga runner.

[from Bobby Goosey's Compendium of Perfectly Sensible Nonsense]