Kevin Brennan Writes About What It's Like

Sometimes I write humorous verse…

Celebrity “Friends”

Who shall be my manly hero —
Mr. Mel Gibson or Bob DeNiro?

Who shall be my main man —
Jacko, or that guy from Rainman?

Who shall I as a model use —
Mickey Dolenz or Tom Cruise?

Who’m I to one day marry —
Cate Blanchett or Halle Berry?

And what’s become of Matthew Perry?
What’s become of Matthew Perry?

If I’m on a bus or plane —
Can I sit by Shania Twain?

Who can I take on my kayak —
Heidi Klum or Salma Hayek?

When it’s time to play some tennis —
Kournikova or Hopper, Dennis?

Still and all — where’s Matthew Perry?
What’s become of Matthew Perry?


Her Tattoo Review

The lass I love is fond of her tattoos.
There’s one of me, and one of you,
And one of young Tom Cruise.
On her arm’s a shiny little toaster,
On her back’s a tiny Paternoster.
I can’t tell you where my favorite lies,
But let’s just say it’s near the junction
of her thighs.


Kulture Klash

What should we do for Paris and Lindsay,
Those troubled young ladies of chic?
I wish there were something to offer to them,
So they won’t be arrested each week.

I ought to feel worse for Lindsay and Paris,
I ought to be wetting my hanky.
And maybe I’d throw them some crocodile tears,
If only they weren’t so damn skanky.


Smelly Donut

One day I found a donut
It was a Krispy Kreme
Its skin was sweet and shiny
It was a sweet tooth’s dream.

But to my nose I held it,
And noticed sumpn funny.
It had a noxious odor to it,
Like poo, or rotten bunny.

A dilemma now, I tell ya,
I knew not what to say,
The odor from that glazed was foul,
But I ate it anyway.


Tempus Fugit About It

Who knows where the bloody time goes?
You turn your back to blow your nose,
And suddenly you’re in the throes
Of hemorrhoids and old folks’ woes.
Who knows where the bloody time goes?

Who knows where the bloody time goes?
The bloom comes off the pretty rose,
You spend your time at HMOs,
Like morbid Edgar Allen Poes.
Who knows where the bloody time goes?

Who knows where the bloody time goes?
The fate of hobos and CEOs:
From blushing youth to orthopedic hose,
And then you start to decompose.
Who knows where the bloody time goes?


Lines Written After A Boffo Pot of Chili

Beans, beans, the musical fruit,
The more you eat, the more you toot.

Beans, beans, the life of the party,
No matter your age, you’ll always be farty.

Beans, beans, they’re good ammunition,
The odor they make is like nuclear fission.

Beans, beans, the magical pellet,
Once they’re inside you, the rest of us smell it.


Three Haiku

Broken-winged birdies
Slammed into our clean glass door
Fate’s invisible

Things could be worse, no?
Intestinal parasites
Bring us perspective

Which one is better?
Wine made by Smothers Brothers
Or Fred MacMurray?


The Ballad of Steve Irwin

If you’re gonna go swimmin’ with the fishes,
The fishes in the deep blue sea,
Be sure to keep your flippers off the stingrays,
Or sleepin’ with the fishes you will be.

We watched with dreadful trepidation,
Not believing what we thought we saw,
The time you held your little baby out
O’er that crocodile’s gaping maw.

Oh farewell, Steve Irwin, wrestler of crocs,
You were our bonnie nature boy,
The best of all the jocks.

You held the deadly snake before the camera,
When opening his mouth about to strike, he
Wriggled as you leapt and dodged his fangs,
And you spun around and shouted, “Crikey!”

Oh farewell, Steve Irwin, wrestler of crocs,
You were our bonnie nature boy,
The best of all the jocks.

But then the day arrived that you were destined,
Destined to approach the lurking ray,
And in a flash his barb had pierced you,
And you died, Dear Steve, you died,


On Turning Fifty

At first you don’t suspect a thing
But then your ears begin to ring,
And then you get progressive lenses
(Or, if a lady, you stop your menses).
Digestion — less reliable,
Your skin — notably less pliable,
Memories once clear grow foggy,
Each night by ten o’clock you’re groggy.
Don’t get me started on libido,
I’ve had to nickname mine Placido.
Alas, my cockles ain’t alive alive-o,
I’ve slammed right into the big 5-0.


Lines Written on October 31

Farewell, my friends from NaNoWriMo,
I won’t be seein’ you as of tomorrow.

You’ll be obsessing over daily quotas,
And I won’t care more than — 2 iotas.

You’ll eschew that dreaded delete key,
And I will nap beneath a pine tree.

You’ll develop eye rings like bruises,
I’ll be cavorting with my muses.

In the end you’ll shelve that hurried novel,
And back to your family you’ll grovel.

Ultimately, my November’s happy,
While yours, I really have to think, is crappy.


How you say?

The question has come to the top of the stack
Whether to say it Ear-rock or Ear-rack.
The finer you’re bred seems to dictate Ear-rock;
Eye-rack is a favorite of doofus or jock.
Some people, hoping to counter-attack,
Screw up the issue by saying Eee-rack.
Then there’s the variant, somewhat ad hoc,
From the mouth of Mick Jagger: he says “Oy Rock.”


On The Yuletide

Stumped is what I always feel
Come this time of year.
They call this time the Yuletide,
I find that pretty queer.

First, I don’t know what it means,
It’s all but Greek to me,
I don’t know what a “Yule” is,
And tide? So where’s the sea!

There’s something called a Yule log,
There’s a guy who’s called Yul Brynner,
There’s soap suds by the name of Tide,
Yul Brynner — he’s a tenor?

In any case, I’m baffled,
Old Norse, it had its jól,
But that was old-time pagan stuff,
No talk of the North Pole.

So let’s just call it Christmas,
Let’s tell it like it be,
Some guy crawls down your chimney,
And leaves boxes ‘round your tree.


Couplets Bidding Farewell To 2013

So twenty-thirteen has finally wound down.
There wasn’t much in it that gave me a frown.

Here I present to you some of the jazz
That gave this particular annus pizzazz:

Turns out I’m really diggin’ this pope;
More and more gay people get to elope.

That Edward Snowden, he blew the whistle;
Iran didn’t get a nuclear missile.

Pussy Riot, luckily, got out of jail;
At least we’re still getting Saturday mail.

Anthony Weiner’s scenario’s iffy,
He shouldn’t have posted that pic of his stiffy.

Sure, Nelson Mandela’s no longer alive,
But you gotta admit, dude was ninety-five.

3D printing, it looks like a winner,
Soon you’ll be able to print your own dinner.

The Nobel in Lit went to Munro, Alice;
There’s a new baby boy in Great Britain’s palace.

China has landed a thing on the moon;
I wish they’d have landed it on Kim Jong Un.

“Breaking Bad” had to go off the air,
Now Bryan Cranston can grow back his hair.

I started a blog, it’s called What The Hell;
Seemed like the time to come out of my shell.

Also (at times it’s hard not to grovel!)
I manned up and published another new novel.

So be nice, dear reader, and don’t make me goad:
Pick up a copy of Yesterday Road.

One comment on “Sometimes I write humorous verse…

  1. Pingback: 4/26/13 | WHAT THE HELL

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