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Poems by the Dashing Galoot

Here are a collection of poems – some serious, most not-so-serious – written at one time or another by the Dashing Galoot. The poems nearest the top of the page are the most recent, generally. Some of the poems aren’t titled so that you can interpret your own meaning from the content instead.

Shave Me From Myself

A beard
On a face, smeared
In haphazard fashion
Is quite dashin’

So I still stave off
The desire to shave off
Down to the molecule
Every last follicle

But since I like to show off,
My cheeks, I might mow off
My facial growth.
Or hair. Or both.

It would be so shocking that I used a razor,
My nickname would be, “The Human Taser”

Once my engine starts sounding clattery,
It’s clear frost’s assaulting my battery.
I turn the ignition
With silent petitions,
But now it’s doing even badderly.

Perhaps my poor vehicle’s kryptonite,
Was ignoring the bright check engine light.
Forsaking mechanics,
I try not to panic,
And wish I was not a Wisconsinite.

Freedom of Breech(es)

There isn’t quite anything
Like a nice hamstring,
And any old galoot
Knows the value of glutes,
But rather than showing my huge quadriceps,
I now have to follow society’s precepts.

When I wish to show off both of my legs
Some dimwit comes over rudely begs
That instead of leaving my viewership to chance
I ought to be decent and put on some pants.

“Good sir,” I replied, “Truly nothings demeans
My legs like wearing a pair of jeans!”
He said, “Maybe, but anyways you’ll have to stop
Before I call my good friend who’s a cop.”

“What?!” I said, “Haven’t you got any brains?
Or don’t you appreciate the sight of some Hanes?”
But since my good friend wouldn’t listen to reason
He thought he should try to send me to preeson.

The cop said, “Sir, have you lost track of your hosiery?
You seem to be doing indecent exposuring!”
I said, “As a cop you must be acquainted with sirens –
I’ll be the Siren and you’ll be admirin’.

I flexed what I could of my pantsless bod,
Switching from left to right vascular quad,
But the policeman called it bologna,
So now I must always wear my pantalones.

Music soaring
First time exploring
First date breathtaking
All kinds of making
All waterfalls
Pretty drops then the next drop calls
Pretty sure that she’ll laugh
Master of that one craft
Mysteries now understood
Musing – beautiful head, or beautiful hood?

Cities
Ever had some Naple Syrup?
It’s off-brand Canadien, just like Taranto.
Before I start Siena Italian tear up,
Verona time crunch, so Pisa-self together – Pronto.

5:30’s far too late for financial Accounting
The monotony is truly astounding
Like being a dull garden hedger
Or sewer dredger
Or undies wedger
The task I say is even edgier
Is writing an accounting ledger

Who wants to be a millionaire?
It makes you seem less debonaire.
You may be an earner extraordinaire,
But on the backburner it’s still worse than air.
And all those gold diggers…
I’ll stick with three figures.

My nose is melting but I’m not hot
I’m sniffling up a lot of snot.
While the rest of me tries not to shiver
My nostrils let loose a repulsive river.

I’m surrounded by dull mediocrities
All trying to be the new Socrates
I need to get out of philosophy
Before my brain starts to atrophy

Dashing? Not? Say how you feel!
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