The Modern Curmudgeon

It's nice to have irons and fire. But also, it's nice to retire At a half-decent hour So it's within your power To wake up and feel inspired.

Our home's a confusion of plastic Making both my sons go spastic Toys, balls, and balloons Fill up all our rooms... I may have to do something drastic.

Nate, I hope you had a ball. (There were plenty of them, wall-to-wall) You bounced and had cake And got to stay up late A good time, I think, was had by all.

The decision I had trouble making Regarding my starter was taking Time that it need not Because what I'd forgot Is pork belly's real close to bacon.

My son, one day when you're a man we'll Talk about you at two and you'll Hear tales of tickles And gabba and pickles. Happy birthday to you, my Nathaniel.

They say that things happen in threes And by "things" they mean "tragedies." But if you ask me, I Think that's just how we try To make sense of the nonsense we see.

If only someone had advised Me that when your kids are still pint-sized, There's more to their routine Than the things that you've seen... Sometimes they must be nebulized.

I don't want to be writing this poem. I'd much rather be on my way home. But I've three lines to write Now just two, end in sight: Here's the last one. Now I must be going.

Script written, the weight has been lifted Which means now the burden has shifted To the folks in the suits Whose notes of no use Will confirm that they're not very gifted.

An oyster can go to and fro From male to female, so If the mood strikes its shell Melinda's now Mel. Which is sort of like Chastity Bono.

"On Death and Dying" I've read Know the stages of grief in my head But the reality Of her mortality Isn't theory. It's there, in her bed.

If only the viewers could see Behind the screens of their TVs And into the process Of writing this nonsense That just might end up killing me.

We're right now at the darkest spot In the tunnel, and all that we've got Is the hope there's a light, That we'll make it all right... Or that death will come swiftly, if not.

Like father like son; there's a truth In that age-old adage, and proof Is that my eldest son Did today as I'd done As a child... and knocked out a tooth.

My four year old likes my laptop He'll go online and won't want to stop Which I don't mind At least until such time As he figures out how to shop.

At seven, I thought we were fine. We'll finish this thing in no time. But then we got tripped Up, the end of the script Was a bitch... but at least there was wine.

"Daddy, will you rest with me?" Each night he asks, perpetually "All right," I said And lay down on the bed He closed his eyes. And went to sleep.

The view was great, there was a breeze There was wine and beer and cake and cheese If only the lawn That it was held on Weren't inclined at 40 degrees

Twitter, I'm technically on But only because my name's gone Snatched up by some vermin Who goes by @jonsherman Leaving me @shermanjon But don't you go following me 'Cause there will be nothing to see All the pith that I got Is reserved for this spot. (Or failing that, banality).

When the ladies who vacuum the floor Come in through the office door It's a pretty good sign That you've spent too much time At work... and then you work some more.

I'm not sure you should have confessed That with jonsherman.com you're obsessed 'Cause given that you're Right outside my door I might have to be more repressed.

Awakened by thunder and lightning I knew that today would be frightening And production would curse Shooting exteriors And I prayed for the sky to start brightening.

Thrown into the deep end I thought Dear lord, what the hell have I got Myself into with this Exhausting business? But tomorrow... I'll miss it a lot.

The script done, the weekend was mine To enjoy with my wife on our time (Except I neglected To send out reflected The changes in scene twenty nine).

To market, (Spice Market) we go For dinner, then off to a show It's like a memory Of who we used to be Before children, oh so long ago.

At last, the Maggie has landed! So once this production's disbanded It's back to Manhattan Where I will get fat on The sweet one who my life's enchanted.

I went to bed without a thought 'Cause At one thirty there's simply not A moment to lose If you want to snooze So this limerick it just got forgot

For Avery Pratt, and so for me The stars aligned in NYC This could be my last chance To see this thing dance So I'm counting on you, IFC.

At 1 am I'm not my best So I'll not rhyme under duress But will instead Go climb into bed And pray that I'll get some rest.

A long day I thought would conclude With a quick trip out to get some food Then right into bed But one thing it led To another, and now I'm just screwed.