The Modern Curmudgeon

Tomorrow, my day starts before five And so if I am to survive I must go to bed Before ten, lest I dread The hours left I am alive.

New York. Like a modern day Rome, Is a circus, a citadel grown Beyond its conceit, Beyond endless concrete To become possibility's home.

Damn it. I looked at my wrist My watch telling me that I'd missed My daily deadline To record things in rhyme. Yet I've no time to be ful of wist. After all, for all things there's a first Time. And it's not the worst Thing that's come to pass That a day has elapsed And I didn't observe it in verse.

Midnight, somewhere in New York I think somewhere close to North Fork I've been kidnapped by the Cruelest mistress, TV And she feeds me dry, overcooked pork.

If, with your kids you have flown, You look forward to traveling alone. So how to explain I've yet to board the plane And already I'm missing home.

Happy birthday to you, Maggie Sherman You deserve it -- and so I'm determined To make your bon anniversaire Le meillure , ma chère (Or die besten geburtstag , in German).

Keeping a secret is tough When you're four and just learning to bluff So I felt some small pride When my son white-lied "Just talking about trucks and stuff."

Today we found ourselves cramming In two parties while faintly damning The luck of distraction And pool party action As we spent the whole day enjambing.

Approaching Memorial Day We decided that we would explain To our son Zachary About cemeteries... Now he wants to dig up remains.

No longer must we live in fear At our National Parks, as now we're Permitted to bring Our loaded guns in And shoot the shit out of a bear.

The story that just wouldn't break Dear lord, how long will this take? Perhaps it's the premise That threatens to hem us In till we can't stay awake.

At some point I'd like to stop thinking And go home and get to the drinking For attenuating Too much cogitating For my brain that is rapidly shrinking.

The moment between the audition And your receiving a position Is one part elation Offset by deflation As you contemplate the transition

I'm starting to find it concerning Though an income is nice to be earning That this candle of mine Is lit most of the time And that more than just two ends are burning.

Why do they call them weekends When the work that you do just extends From Friday to Monday Without even one day To just have a drink with some friends?

Wubbzy, let's get something straight: Just because in your show you relate To characters who Are other than you It doesn't mean you educate.

I know that they're paying me money But still their wrongheadedness stuns me And so despite the note I will keep what I wrote And not make it any less funny.

And suddenly out of the blue A project that lacked a venue Could be resuscitated And I'm just elated So posted I'll be keeping you.

Anyone else getting sick Of Cheney, determined to stick To his guns, graft, and greed And torture decreed? I guess that's why he goes by "Dick."

If back in time I could go The thing I would want me to know Is "sleep while you can 'Cause Jon, my old man, Your kids wake up at 5 or so."

How is it I'm so unprepared For what's hung for so long in the air? And how can it be That the mortality Of my parents is suddenly here?

"Happy Mother's Day!" was the refrain Heard over and over again As we never stopped And the corks popped and popped. How'd the hell we drink that much Champagne?

The scent of a candle's delightful But if left from the day till the night you'll Regret shutting it In the powder room lit 'Cause soot-covered walls are most frightful

Toyota, Grey Goose, and Verizon Apparently all have their eyes on Our show 'cause they're paying To affect what we're saying. But they'd never ask us to put lies on... Would they?

...And then it all fell apart. Which you always suspect at the start Of every new show But you just never know When the wheels will come off the cart.

Uncertainty's naught but a cancer But cancer is also a cancer. Goddamn this disease And its metastases Right now all I want is an answer.

10:30. It's been a long day. First TV show, then a screenplay. And now a late meal That'll likely congeal Inside me once I hit the hay.

Restaurant Enoteca Mosto I'm glad that our paths have crossed, though When only one table's Filled will you be able To make it or will you be lost-o? http://www.mostoenoteca.com/

If you leave something till the last minute You'll regret that you didn't begin it Much earlier than Your bedtime, and then The truth is your heart isn't in it. I.E. if I didn't write These verses mostly late at night I feel pretty sure Rather than sucking more They'd suck less (though the chances are slight)

"I just have to go wipe my nose" He says to us, and then he goes To the restroom where he Proceeds to go pee All over the floor and his clothes.

Right now all I want is to leave But I've still got notes to receive So I'll bide my time By writing some rhyme On a subject I've yet to conceive.