Poetry by Ramkitten, Just For Fun

Larry, Lenny, Lou and Lee,
Four brothers who sailed upon the sea.
They sought a great treasure of which they were told
Was marked at the entrance by arches of gold!

These four greedy brothers bound for the shore
Each desired to acquire a whole lot more.
So they plotted and schemed to dispose of the rest,
And to this end, each man tried his best.

At first, the four brothers all worked together.
They needed each other on account of the weather.
Lee manned the tiller and Lenny the sail.
Lou navigated and Larry would bail.

After hours of mayhem, the storm subsided.
Then only by greed the boat was guided.
So back to their scheming the four returned,
And only with riches were they each concerned.

All waited for a chance to get rid of another,
And Lenny was the first disposable brother.
He leaned over the rail to take a pee,
And was pushed into the ocean by the other three.

On the waves, the small craft did roll,
And all of the motion on Lee took its toll.
He bent over the side; he felt very sick,
And the other two brothers, they gave him a kick.

Then there remained only Larry and Lou,
And they tried even harder, let me tell you.
They fought and they wrestled from dawn until night.
If you could have seen it, it sure was a sight.

The boat then turned over from all the commotion,
And the last of the brothers fell into the ocean.
All now apart and adrift with the tides,
They ended up on one island, but on different sides.

Each thinking he the only one to survive,
Couldn't even be grateful simply to be alive.
On they each went in search of the treasure,
And visions of wealth bestowed incredible pleasure.

At once on a clearing the brothers did come,
And a sign with an arrow said, "We know you want some!"
To the siblings' surprise, they bumped into each other,
And each forced a smile and said, "Why ... hello, brother!"

Though somewhat discouraged at finding the rest,
The brothers continued to follow their quest.
So consumed and excited with dreams of great riches,
They all accidentally wet their britches.

As they rounded the bend, their hearts at once stopped,
And onto their knees the brothers then dropped.
Another sign read, "We aim to please,"
And there rose the great golden arches of Mickey D's.

All knew right away to give up the fight,
And concentrate instead on their mean appetites.
Once inside, each selected a meal,
Though without enough money, the four struck a deal.

They pooled all their cash and ordered french fries.
And they got a good bargain, for it was supersized.
When the fries were ready, each selected a chair.
'Twas the very first time they learned how to share.

Aaaaw, shucks! Please, please, ladies and gentlemen--*bowing low*--have a seat.

Once upon a time, I met a great toad.
He grew so big, he growed and growed.
But then one day, he shrunk real quick.
This toad, I tell you, was very sick.

He had a fever of one hundred three,
Which made him sweat profusely, you see.
And as he sweat, he shrunk and shrunk,
'Cuz most of his size was from what he'd drunk.

See, when this toad was feeling well,
He'd imbibe so much, he'd swell and swell.
But then came a day, this toad he drank,
So much beer that his belly sank.

Then this fat and drunken toad
Decided he needed to cross a road.
But as he did, a car came by,
And he shrunk real quick, and you know why.

Poor toad was too slow to get out of the way,
And all of a sudden, there was a spray.
I didn't see it happen, but I heard the splat,
And I came to find that the toad was flat.

(And now for another lesson....)

Such a sad story I needed to say,
Because of the moral I want to convey.
If you're a toad who drinks too much,
And like to play on the road and such,
You'd better ask a friend to drive,
So you and others can stay alive.
It's a bad idea to mix drink and the road,
Or else you'll end up like my poor friend, the toad.

*Sniffle* Hanky anyone?

I wrote this poem for my husband (as my husband) in honor of his fuzzy face. Let me introduce artist, instrument-maker, and Squidoo lensmaster, BuffaloKid, and his very versatile mustache. Smile, Steve!

On the day I entered college,
My mustache was not there,
But by the end of Freshman year,
I had some facial hair.

At the time I joined the working world,
My 'stache was fully grown
And as a result, my lower lip
Then faced the world alone.

Some folks prefer to sculpt balloons
At a birthday bash
But me, I draw the most attention
When I play with my mustache

Oh, the things you can do when a gob of wax
To your mustache is applied,
But you don't have long to do your 'do
Before the wax is dried.

You've probably heard of handlebars
When you twist and curl the ends,
But there's so much more that you can do
With twirls and crimps and bends.

There is an array of mustache styles
Of which I have been thinking
And I always add a new one to my list
Whenever I've been drinking.

One day I gazed into the mirror
And what I saw was frightening.
It looked as though my 'stach'd been hit
By a bolt of lightning.

There's one design I call the brush.
Another, I call the rose.
There's one that hangs below my chin
And one goes up my nose.

But although these forms of mustache art
Are sure to make you smile,
I prefer the good, ol' fashioned,
southwestern cowboy style.

I wrote a novel called, I. Joseph Kellerman. I'm not self-published, but the small press that picked it up died. Literally. I'm talking, the founder and president of Gardenia Press really did die, and her widow shut down the company.

At the time, the first print run (a couple thousand copies) was underway. But once they were printed, the pre-sold books were shipped out to customers ... and the rest ended up on my doorstep. So now I'm left to blatantly plug and promote this book on my own, until or unless I find a new publisher.

Anyhow, you can find out more about the writing of this novel on my lens, Hiking My Way to a Novel, though the subject matter couldn't be further from the great outdoors. In fact, the main character, psychiatrist I. Joseph Kellerman (hence, the title), hasn't left his Boston rowhouse in more than four years.

I. Joseph Kellerman is a both a dark and quirky story. Perhaps uncomfortably so at times. On the one hand, Dr. Kellerman is a man tormented by a horrific past, watched over by his long-time secretary and enabler, Constance Fairhart, who spies on her boss through a hole in the wall. At the same time, many of Dr. Kellerman's patients, who still come and go, day after day, month after month and some still year after year despite how withdrawn the doctor has become, are downright Woody Allen-ish. Charicatures in some ways.

This book is very loosely based on a real man--a controversial character who practiced psychotherapy in Brooklyn until his death in the early 90s. I actually knew relatively little about him when I wrote the story, but a letter from one of the real man's former patients, who read the book, really amazed me, because she said I nailed some of the details, like the smell of Dr. Kellerman's rowhouse among other things. Eerie.

Anyhow, if you'd like to read an excerpt and order a copy perhaps, visit my website at http://www.debralauman.com. The signed copies are currently $12.95 including shipping, payable by check, money order or PayPal.

Thanks for reading my plug!

Cheers,
Deb