The folk Singer

The Folk Singer

A singer of songs
A teller of tall tales
He’ll save the forests
And help save the whales

He may playing a banjo
Or maybe a guitar
Fighting for a cause
Or protesting a war

His clothes may be shabby
And his hair much too long
But he’ll sell his message
By singing his own song

He’s usually a liberal
But not always the case
He’ll tell his politics
Anytime, Anyplace

His song may be hidden
In the song he has sung
He’s fighting with words
Instead of using a gun

But some are still threatened
With the problems, that he warns
For swaying the public
Each time he performs



Because he’s a Folk Singer
And he’s his own man
He doesn’t need an orchestra
Or even a band

He needs no accompaniment
No help from anyone
He marches to the beat
Of his own different drum

For he’s the Folk Singer
And he has his own mission
To inform all of you
Of his special political position

He knows it’s his job
To tell a good story
Just like Woody Guthrie
In “Bound For Glory”

And just like Woody
He sings for the poor and the weak
Who have no loud voices
So the public can hear them speak

And when his song
Is finally done
His only hope
Is that, he touched someone

A Trophy

Do we measure someone’s value
By their trophy’s size
Be it an Oscar, an Emmy
Or even a Nobel Prize

A Heisman Trophy
Will make you a lot richer
And you get an Oscar
If you’re in the right picture

The N.F.L. has a silver ball
For the owner of their team
Hockey has a Big Cup
That disappears every year in between

If you get a “Grammy”
And I hope that you do
Don’t let anyone else
Take it away from you

Then there’s the “Tony”
For an outstanding play
I don’t live in New York
So it doesn’t matter, anyway

Miss America gets a crown
For being a beautiful girl
But only if she prays
For “Peace in the World”

The Dispatch

When I opened the Dispatch
I discovered something new
Right there on the page
Where we share our point of view

It was called “The Poet’s Corner”
And I wondered what was the intent
Were they encouraging poetry
About our government

For I had been sending poems
For quite a long time
But they have only published
About half of mine

And some of the contributors
Even receive a “Golden Quill”
For the letter that, they send
About our country’s current ills

But there is one thing
That seems to show, more clearly
You will probably be published
If you agree with, Mr. Mark Derry

A Call To Action

Now I certainly realize that
The Republican’s have all the bucks
Is this why the Democrats always
Seem to look like a bunch of schmucks

The Demo’s now have the majority
To get the bills passed through
So stop letting the Republican’s
Always take advantage of you

If the right wing insists
On playing those little games
It’s time for you, to KICK ASS
And start, taking Names

Stop being so concerned
About being politically correct
And help erase those last eight years
And all the people they affect

There’s a lot more of us on Main Street
Than all those guys, in high finance
So let’s change the rules
And give the rest of us, half a chance

And I don’t want to gossip
But have you seen Tom DeLay
“Dancing With The Stars”
He sure looks pretty--- gay

How Do You Spell B.S.

As you lay there suffering
And gasping for breath
Oh, Oh, here they come
“Obama’s Panel of Death”

It’s they who decide
In your final hours
To give you treatment
Or just send you flowers

This is just so wrong
And so totally absurd
To lead people astray
With these untrue words

But praise those HMO’s
Who demand that you pay
But when you need help
They just run away

Is your government run
By the lobbyist’s finance
So all the drug companies
Can keep, their hands in your pants

So stop trying to spin it
With the word “Socialize”
The solution is there
If we just open our eyes

So Long Charlie

Every life here on earth
Must come to an end
So, I come here today
To say “Goodbye to An Old Friend”

I was saddened to hear
When Henry called the other night
He made it perfectly clear
Charlie had gone into “That Long Good Night”

We played golf together
In Charlie’s later years
Told a few tall tales
And shared a couple of beers

He would walk up to the tee box
Place the ball on a little white peg
And proceed to outdrive my ball
While just standing, on one leg

He drove dragsters, and rode motorcycles
And he even ventured into flight
And I can still hear him saying
“Boy, You Got That Right”

So I’ll just say so long
To the man we all knew
And it was truly our good fortune
For all of us, to have known you

Seeking Direction

Roman, Roman,
You little Polanski
You left the country
When the verdict was chancy

Your life as been troubled
And sadness sealed your fate
With the horrible murder
Of your wife, Sharon Tate

Having sex with a child
With or without her consent
Is considered Statutory RAPE
By our government

When you ran away
And fled over to France
Even admitting that
You couldn’t keep it, in your pants

You’re a famous director
And a real wealthy guy
For people like you
The laws don’t apply?




Since you’re so talented
And a celebrity of sorts
Your fate is too important
To be decided, by our courts

So when trial was convening
You chose to run
Never facing the crime
That you had just done

But you have great vision
You’re a artistic dreamer
But the crime you committed
Was no misdemeanor

Don’t run away
Like a scared little kid
Come back and face up
To the things, that you did

So be a real man
And confront all your past
Come back and face your accusers
And show some REAL CLASS