Two Stories

I. A Mass of Hair

Amethyst, lactose, doily, doily,

Amy’s hair is really oily.

She cut it once, but let it grow—

Incidentally, her left breast glows.

“What sound does a moose make?”

Asked her bewildered son.

“Dear son,”

Said she,

“A moose sounds like me,

For I am one.”

“We know about the pop tarts!”

Said President Andersen

Of the Society of American Snobs.

“You only know the half of it!”

Said Amy,

Because the other half was now shit.

Her husband Little John—

Such a gem among men!

They called him Little John,

’Cause his john was so little.

“I’ve lost my reading glasses,” said Amy.

“Hey diddle diddle!

No sex tonight!”

Little John went to bed at ten.

“It’s a good thing Eric Gilbert’s next door.”

Amy unclasped her bra and reached for the phone.

Poor John had to sleep on the floor.

“What sound does a moose make?”

Asked the son from under the bed.

“Shh,” said John. “What do you hear overhead?”

Loud pounding from above.

“I think Eric Gilbert’s dead.”

And so he was.

II. Milkmaid

LambdaMOO, LambdaMOO.

Moo, moo, Amy, moo!

Bruckman milk was once a delicacy.

But global warming and rising heat

Have dried up every last drop of milk

From the once-famous Bruckman teat.

“I remember every Sunday after Church,”

Said an old one,

“Female Bruckmans under that great birch.

The pastor would milk them from nine to eleven.

For the first ones in line, that milk was heaven.”

Amy’s left breast is made of silicone:

Soymilk on Sundays and a life of its own.

But the right breast carries on the Bruckman legacy;

And Tanisha,
Her duties completed,

Curls up in Amy’s lap
And latches onto it like a bee.

The land of milk and honey indeed.