On those who do what I cannot, my praise I lavish
When all my efforts still fail, I am immersed in anguish.
My attempts at the Yo-Yo were weak and childish
It seems even my Ma thought my efforts were foolish
Even in politics my leanings tend to be leftish
No hawks in my loft, I am extremely dovish
When I hear words that sound pretty warish
I will say, “That is nonsense, pure rubbish!”
Learning to play guitar was at one time my fetish
I attacked that thing with the fever of a dervish
I even wore a bandana which often was reddish
Unfortunately the sound turned out to be hellish.
The Cello, I thought, was where I could embellish
The dog it turns out was my biggest fanish
He would sit at my feet and his tail he did swish.
He would cry and moan in a style most doggish.
Mr. Ma said, “It appears your fingers are too fattish.”
No subtlety from him, he was in fact quite brutish.
I asked Mr. Santana, but he was even more cliquish.
It seems to me they were both extremely selfish.
So they combined their efforts and together did flourish
It made both my guitar and me gently weep with joyish.
© Tim D. Culey -2011
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